


Halfway to Hornsea

by ac1d6urn (Acid)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muggles, Patronus, Seaside, Secret Snarry Swap 2018, Small Towns, Spy Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-29 09:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid/pseuds/ac1d6urn
Summary: As Auror Potter's first mission goes terribly wrong in Atwick, Yorkshire, will Severus Snape's curse-breaking knowledge and family roots be enough to save the day?





	Halfway to Hornsea

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to Antuhsa and Katze for their beta-reading effort! This story fought me like an angry dragon. They helped to steer it back on track. Thank you, also, to the creator of this wonderful prompt and to everyone reading. May you find your way to that one special doorway just in time for the holidays.
> 
> Prompt 20 from maraudersaffair: During an Auror mission in a rural part of England, Harry is attacked and left for dead. The person who finds him is Severus Snape.

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_header.png)

 

 _"And to my niece - my house upon a cliff,_ __  
_Should she repent and stay. A Prince once more._ __  
_May she be claimed by Dragon Pox, if not,_  
_And let the Black Death slaughter that whole lot._ __  
_That brazen, two-faced, muggle-loving whore!"_  
\- Agnes Prince. Last Will and Testament, revision 17.

 

 _Fuck_ it's _bright!_ Harry squinted at the sun.

It had been years since the war, but he still had the urge to press himself to the ground in a place this wide-open and sunlit. _Stop it. Breathe. Let it be. Yes, that's it._ A butterfly strayed from the flowerbed and Harry waved it away. It zigzagged on the breeze, yellow and fragile, slower than a Snitch, less predictable than an aimed hex.

Letting go of the past was never easy, and the quiet places, like this one, imploding with stillness, made all the struggles, all the memories, and all the shell shock loom closer. The air around him smelled of late summer: the sweetness of grass and the fragrant wildflowers. Faced with a sunny scenery, counting years and miles between the battle of Hogwarts and his present day, having spent this last year single, with plenty of time to think, Harry Potter knew he was doing all right. One might even say he was doing great. He was an Auror now. An Auror on his first mission.

Spat out here by a Portkey, Harry emerged on an empty footpath by a church cemetery. A low crooked bench stretched toward his right knee and a sunny cluster of daffodils sprouted at his left. A grassy-green pair of plastic rubbish bins marked the end of the lane. Harry blinked and thought he'd got the wrong location at first. The seasoned old boot that had sent him into a whirlwind of activity must've been charmed wrong. That was the only explanation. _The only probable explanation. Right?_ Suddenly, Harry wasn't so sure, since there was no one around to ask.

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_butterfly.jpg)

He peered at the Portkey. Seawater stained the gaping crack at the tip of the boot like drool and the droopy boot laces hung low like catfish whiskers. Harry hmphed and turned it away from him. Having fulfilled its duties, the Portkey now rested dormant in his hand, looking settled and content for a boot of its age. Try as he might, Harry couldn't say the same about himself. He had had such high hopes for this trip but all of them fizzled out like a party balloon as he took in the [idyllic scene](https://www.google.com/maps/@53.9395626,-0.1964094,3a,75y,336.34h,94.92t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s2kxKL6YYT-untB-7E1I-eA!2e0!7i13312!8i6656).

A quick location spell confirmed that Harry was in the quaint little village of Atwick, two miles north of Hornsea. In the distance, a seagull let out a mournful cry, cementing Harry's suspicions. This was all a giant hoax and Robards had personally orchestrated it.

_Argh!_

As any reasonable recruit fresh out of his training would, Harry ached for action, for the actual danger, for the duels in dark alleys and all the criminals caught red-handed. Now that he and Ron had finished their studies at the Academy, no seedy thief, no ruthless murderer would escape their watchful eye. Prepared to change the world in one go, Harry had waited with bated breath for his first assignment. Oh, how his heart had skipped a beat when Robards had called Harry into his office. At last, the briefing would take place, making the first long-term mission for the Boy Who Lived a reality instead of a long-held dream. Harry had walked out of that office with an overjoyed smile, grinning at Ron and Neville as he relayed the happy news. He would leave on Tuesday, assigned to monitor the potential Death Eater activity near Hornsea!

Hornsea sounded rather exciting and very important and maybe even full of danger. _What would it be like?_ Harry wondered. _Maybe it'll have an entire Wizarding district. Or a village nearby just like Ottery St Catchpole but with more crime to fight. Crime fighting is cool no matter what Robards says about it being our daily responsibility right before launching into a tirade about our sacred duty to society at large. Ugh! I can just picture that moustache twitch like two giant pincers as he says it._

Robards himself must have selected the location on the map for Harry's first assignment. Harry frowned, looking around. Supervising Harry's first mission was one thing but this... Seeing the location firsthand affirmed Harry's lingering suspicions. _This is nothing like what I expected. Why, it looks like the safest, most Muggle village in all of Britain._ A hand-picked haven for Harry Potter, the Wizarding world's hero. And no wonder! The whole world treated Harry like the Man Who Lived, why not Robards as well? What else was Harry good for but to pose for moving photographs and to scribble an autograph or two for charity now and then? Not the actual missions! Never the actual work he signed up for when he joined the Academy.

Harry stared at the gaping boot with the floppy rubber sole in his hand. Now the puzzle pieces all clicked together and the crack at the boot's tip looked incredibly smug, as if it too mocked him. ' _Most critical mission of your career, young man!' There is no mission!_

The look on Robards' face when he said that... _His moustache bristled just like Uncle Vernon's. He was definitely hiding something. He must've picked the Portkey too. Personally, as an insult to me. That meddling git!_ In a fit of fury, Harry threw his used Portkey off the picturesque hill toward the orange brick houses in the distance. It tumbled, hitting the muddy tree line, and disappeared amid the tall grass.

The sun shone so blindingly. Harry sighed and imagined London's seedy underbelly and all the crime he could've uncovered there in the past two weeks. He seethed, silently hating Robards. Even Ron and Neville had received a better deal, stationed at Hogsmeade for their first assignment as the Hogwarts term was starting.

But there was nothing to do about it. Not today, at least. Harry refused to put his Patronus through the sort of messages he'd send to his friends right now. And thus, to distract himself from plotting Robards' colourful demise, Harry trekked up the road until he ran across arrow-shaped signs pointing to the two different locations of Skipsea and Hornsea, and then sighed and decided on the nearby West View Guest House, right across from the noisy Black Horse pub. He tucked away his wand and, not bothering to conceal his scar, gave the stranger at the desk a wholesome smile as he paid his way in Muggle banknotes received from Robards. The trimmed hedges, the green lawn, and the crooked white door of a cupboard right below the staircase, reminded Harry of his time at Privet Drive, never a happy memory. It brought unease to his gait and stiffness to his shoulders.

As soon as he was allowed to, Harry fled upstairs, walked into the small rooms he had paid for, planted his rucksack on the narrow bed and squinted at it. Muggle identification, charmed papers allowing him to act as a Muggle policeman, an assortment of plastic cards in a see-through satchel all rested on top of Harry's belongings, inside that rucksack. And that was just the start of it. Also, he had with him the emergency Portkey back to London, the shrunken assortment of potions and charmed objects selected to make it easier for him to spend a few weeks, if not months, in deep hiding. The flimsy printout of _Charming Muggles: A Lawful Wizard's Guide to Undetected Magic_ was the most useless item within that lot _._

_Huh, what's that?_

In the mesh pocket of his rucksack was a golden glimmer. Harry bent down to take a closer look: it was his Order of Merlin, of all things. Harry remembered staying overnight for the last Ministry gathering he was persuaded to attend. He had angrily pulled the medal off his chest at the first opportunity, before even unpinning and loosening the cravat of his dress robes. He had shoved it in the pocket of his bag and forgotten all about it. Harry winced, glaring at the ornate gold star. _Argh. Might as well wear 'Hex me, I'm the Boy Who Lived' target on my back! At least most people here can't tell the Wizarding world's most distinguished award from a Christmas ornament._

Harry wrapped the Order of Merlin with the green ribbon that was attached to it, and shoved it in the very bottom of the bag, under the unruly pile of stray socks, shirts and jeans.

And then, he headed to the pub to drown his sorrows in a pint.

 _It's Tuesday now,_ he told himself, _I'll give it until Friday. But only until then. I need answers and quick!_

Friday came and went. And then summer passed him by, and as the tourist flow slowed down, Harry hated Robards no less. With every report he penned and every piece of paperwork filed, with every Sunday evening as he forced himself to Apparate back to the Muggle countryside and stay there until Friday afternoon, he pictured the death of a thousand paper cuts directed at the man in charge of the Auror department.

During the weekdays, he walked around a lot, to explore at first, and then to quench his thirst for human company: chatting with the locals helped stave off boredom. White and orange cottages peppering the surroundings by the [Black Horse](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Atwick#/media/File:The_Black_Horse,_Atwick_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1326149.jpg) pub reminded Harry of Bill and Fleur's place. But while Shell Cottage was lonely and aloof, these crowded together. The locals strolled along the narrow streets on weekdays and some of them greeted Harry by name. There was Mr Vickerton, who ran a farm and frequently came into town for supplies, and the chatty Mrs Gale from the caravan park who seemed happy to invite Harry over for tea and to gossip the afternoon away. There was her friend Mrs Walker from church, the same church where Harry landed on his first day in Atwick. Abigail Walker was stout and nosy, and whenever she strolled into the pub with her bag of produce, the whole crowd in front of the beer taps parted to let her through. Following the bartender's advice, Harry learned to step out of her way as well. Her reputation preceded her just like the constant smell of mothballs and her cheap violet perfume.

If the locals asked why he was staying here, Harry answered that he was taking a year off uni to write a book about local culture and folklore and adopted a dreamy look mimicking Gilderoy Lockhart's book jacket photos. His book was all a complete mystery of course, and he couldn't possibly talk about it. In any case, it prompted a few friendly offers to show him around the cliffs and coaxed out more than one family ghost story. It also stopped any further questions about Harry's intentions and explained the weekly paperwork which kept him busy writing.

Day by day, Harry came to the same conclusion: this small Muggle village near the North Sea coast held no magic within. Sure, a rumour of the headless horseman haunting the nearby cliffs was brought up one evening at the pub, and the spring by the local church may have been once home to a hobgoblin. (Harry snickered picturing Stubby Boardman and The Hobgoblins waking up the parishioners of that sleepy little place.)

The village had a Church Lane and a Cliff Road which never met. Two caravan parks sprawled a short walk away toward the seashore. As he took the road past the caravan parks down the [empty path to the cliff-side](https://www.google.com/maps/@53.9416666,-0.1796246,3a,53.1y,20.29h,93.06t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sl3scfpHRw--6JJ_CPEjJ3Q!2e0!7i13312!8i6656), the cheery ripples rolled along the shore with a hiss-whisper, the teeming seagulls called out from the sunny skies above his head and one bright fishing boat bobbed along the merry waves.

Several [pillboxes](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Atwick#/media/File:Pillbox_Lozenge,_Atwick_\(front\).JPG), remains of the Second World War defences, still disappeared into the tall grass all around the village. These bunkers seemed tiny and odd beneath the blue sky. No match for a single Blasting Curse. But nothing as sinister as battle magic could happen in such a sunny, picturesque place. It remembered no Wizarding wars and no Voldemort. These car parks and that lonely pub that smelled of fish and chips and the narrow paths between the cottages hid no Wizarding entrances and the cemetery by the red-bricked church had no magical tombstones. The entire place was, well, Muggle. Too much so, for Harry's eyes. Perhaps when he had been ten, the mysterious local legends would have sounded enchanting. But now, the place felt like a shiny chocolate wrapper, all brightness and bluster of Muggle countryside, the countryside which had never known the wreckage and ruin caused by Voldemort's followers.

There had been moments in Harry's life, foggy and dull days after the war, when he hadn't cared about anything at all, much less taking another breath. Not because risking his life had meant saving someone, but because he had wanted things to end. There were nights when his entire life after the war had seemed worthless as a discarded chocolate wrapper. That immense sense of disappointment, of hollow emptiness, had been chased away only by a daily routine, of putting one foot in front of the other. Harry knew well how to do that by now, and that's exactly what he did in this situation too. Kept on with the routine, until something gave, outwaiting the sense of dread until something in his life changed at last.

How did anyone get over the war? Perhaps, people just pretended they did.

September came and went by. Harry made it a habit to take a stroll through the beaches near Atwick, and air out his thoughts on the whole miserable situation in which he had found himself. The walks helped, especially as he fell further behind on turning in his reports, simply because he ran out of ideas to add to them and recounting his useless day-by-day amblings at the village seemed like a complete waste of time.

_What am I going to write about this week? Mrs Beecroft missing her chickens or Mr Wood getting a flat tire on the way from Skipsea? Robards is probably laughing at every word, the bastard._

The entire mission was an exercise in trying Harry's patience. There was nothing Harry wanted more than to march into Robards' office demanding explanation. But Robards was certainly the type to dispense information on a need-to-know basis. And besides, Harry had strict instructions to stay put and report promptly about any further developments. Oh, but there were days he wanted to quit the whole endeavour and Apparate home on a Wednesday: kick his feet up and spend a day being the target of Kreacher's rants, then Floo-call Ron and Hermione and rage at the sheer impossibility of what Robards had asked him to do. Perhaps Ministry work wasn't a good fit for Harry, and never had been. Grumpy at the world, Harry recounted the exact conversation in his supervisor's office that had brought him here.

 _And then Robards said: 'Trusted Informant, Madam Griselda Grimsbane, reported magical activity'._ Harry pictured her as an elderly cat lady peering between her window curtains through a pair of binoculars just to spot a bit of firework smoke in the neighbours' yard and send off her paranoid scribbles straight to the Ministry, to land on Robards' desk. _And I believed it all! I know better than to believe Robards. I just know he's going to expect an update about it on my next check-in._

_Hang on, maybe it's all a mistake, or worse, a prank. Maybe... Just maybe, it's an excuse to get me out of the department's way, and there is no Griselda Grimsbane at all. How can there be someone with a name like that? It's obviously fake. And Robards knows it. There's no one here that goes by that surname, and I've met and talked to a good two-thirds of the locals by now. Anyone with a name like that would stick out like a sore thumb._

_Argh!_

Deep in thought, Harry stumbled over something and nearly fell down onto the wet squishy sand. He spun, glancing down. Buried in the [sand of the beach](https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=atwick+cliff&title=Special:Search&go=Go#/media/File:Atwick_Beach_-_geograph.org.uk_-_425559.jpg) was one sea-smoothed corner of a Muggle war bunker resembling a dull mossy boulder. Harry stared at it, and at his own handprint filling with seawater and then disappearing into the grey mush, and released a laboured breath that fogged the lenses of his glasses.

Just like the remains of the old bunker, Harry felt scattered and sinking, as if he was continually digging himself deeper into the mud until only the top of his head remained free.

The entire Ministry was a sinkhole. Nothing Harry tried seemed to matter. His duties as an Auror were reduced to a series of scribbles on paper, sent off on Tuesdays, or occasionally on a late Thursday afternoon by regular post, since even owls were deemed to be too suspicious for a Muggle village by Robards. Harry personally charmed his missives to look like a cheque to the electric company every time he dropped them into the post box.

During the next one of his chilly seaside strolls, Harry measured the winding footpaths with his steps, frozen fists thrust deep into his pockets, wiggling his toes inside his heavy boots to warm them up. After a busy morning of seething procrastination before sending off his bi-weekly report to Robards, he refused to enjoy the calm atmosphere of a sandy beach. It was low tide and, all around him, birds hunted for their food among the scatter of washed-up shells.

He kicked up the wet sand in pure desperation and stared off at the rolling sea waves, grey and stormy. _There's nothing for me here,_ came the thought. _I might as well go home, grow a spine, march into Robards' office and tell the old sod to stop coddling me and give me some proper work to do!_

It was then that the attack came. A magic blast. Right from the caravan park where Mrs Gale and Harry had had tea just last week.

"Petrificus Totalus."

_Fuck!_

A Summoning Charm dragged him into the [shadow of a cliff](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/55/Atwick_Cliff_-_geograph.org.uk_-_425567.jpg) and Harry cursed himself for not reacting fast enough to hurl a counter-hex against the spell and take cover, perhaps even send a Patronus for help as firmly instructed by Robards: in case of emergencies, no matter how small.

 _Oh no, this isn't small. Shit. I'm in trouble, aren't I?_ _No one will realise I am missing for a while! I've been late with my reports so often these days._ He glanced around, frantic, glimpsing shadows out of the corner of his eye and all the faces he couldn't see clearly much less memorise with his glasses shifted upwards, and then the blow to his head came and there was nothing but sea noise and darkness.

*

_Several years earlier..._

_In front of the Atwick Village Hall stood the shaft of a_[ _medieval cross_](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Atwick#/media/File:Atwick_Cross.jpg) _raised on three stone steps. It had an inscription at the base with letters so worn that no one could read it. Even the locals knew little about its origins. Abigail, the vicar's wife, had thought nothing of it, as she rushed that Saturday evening from the_[ _Black Horse pub_](https://www.google.com/maps/@53.9404052,-0.1876918,3a,75y,259.92h,88.46t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sdZIDmlLIOgImaoW-FRf-eQ!2e0!7i13312!8i6656) _after dropping off produce from her garden. She was already late to help her husband prepare the church for the morning service on Sunday. She had hoped that she wouldn't run across any of the wrong sorts of visitors this time around. To think of it, last time, some ill-mannered young lads had cursed in her presence._ Heavens! _Abigail had never felt so insulted in her life._

_An old woman, a definite newcomer to their quaint three-hundred-and-counting village, stood tall at the crossroads, as straight as if she had swallowed a yardstick, surveying the solid block of stone with an expression Abigail could only describe as deep fascination. She wore a flowing black dress that reminded Abigail of fairytale witches or a Victorian-era grandmother in mourning. The woman held a sizeable brolly over her head even though it was barely sprinkling outside. Abigail chided herself as she approached, it was simply good manners to be friendly to your elders. And here she was, eyeing the stranger like a tourist attraction instead of offering a hand._

_"Can I help you?" she called out. "It's not a good time for a walk, that's for sure. Just feel that breeze. Are you staying in town for the services tomorrow?" It didn't hurt to mention the services now and then in case that's what the visitor was after._

_The crow-caw of a sharp laugh greeted her. For a moment, Abigail struggled to make out whether it came from the old woman or from the murder of crows settling in the surrounding trees. "You could say that. You're a local, yes? Quick, girl. Do you know of another one of these nearby?"_

_Abigail frowned at the 'girl' on the stranger's lips. She was forty-five and not a moment younger thank-you-very-much, but the startling stranger was so out of place here, she seemed genuinely in need of help. Besides, she was still more polite than the rude young men from the pub._

_"The only other one I know of sits atop a cliff by the old shack, but that has to be halfway to Hornsea. You'd best get someone to take you over, love."_

_The woman bared her teeth. "No need." She looked down and planted her sensible black shoes in the mud. There was not a splash on their long and pointy toes._ How odd. _"These old feet have made it through worse journeys than this one, that's for certain."_

_"If you're sure." Abigail blinked, unable to take her eyes away from the old woman's shoes, shiny as a crow feather. To think of it, her long skirt hadn't a splash of rain on it. What fabric was it? And was that a spider embroidered at the hem? "Take the Stow Road past the Welford Park, it's just across the fields from there."_

_The stranger sneered. "Much obliged." She tipped her lace-brimmed hat in Abigail's direction, and with her umbrella folded and tucked under her arm like a giant batwing, turned on her heel, and strode around the corner with a speed unexpected from such an old woman._

_Later that summer, there were whispers of someone moving into the house on the cliff... An ageing widow. Abigail dismissed it as sheer pointless gossip. It was surprising the house hadn't toppled over into the sea long ago. Why, it was as old and unsettling as her Grandpa Willie from Wetwang and twice as creaky to boot. And then, just like by magic, the whispers suddenly stopped altogether, as if they never had been started at all, leaving Abigail questioning her memory of them._

_It had been years since that day when another newcomer asked her a similar question about the twin cross as his companion bent down trying to read the inscription._

_Abigail was nearing fifty then. It was a warm spring morning, and her memory must've not been what it used to because afterwards, even though she remembered the scent of the blooming rosebush across the road and the breeze in her hair, she struggled to recall what the two hulking strangers even looked like, aside from a vague sensation of unease and even danger in the whole exchange seeping through the unusual sense of calm that had settled over her. She remembered shrugging, "Another cross? Why, there's only been just one." She vaguely recalled a cross on a cliff-side but that had only ever been a fairytale told by Da, or her uncles, when she was little, or someone else on Mum's side. There had never been another cross, or many cliff-sides like what she imagined it stood on, from here to Hornsea. She must've dreamed it all. She rushed home, shaking her head._ Must be going batty in my old age, _she thought to herself._

 _Out of the corner of her vision, she saw one of the strangers who waved her off, tucking away a long pointed knitting needle. That must've been a dream too._ Any man who knows how to knit is certainly up to no good! _she thought to herself._

*

_Shitshitshit!_

Harry's vision was blurry as he stirred. It was deathly cold out and wet and miserable. His glasses were askew atop his head.

He moved, feeling around for his wand. The Full Body-Bind must've worn off because he could move his arms again, even though he still couldn't feel his feet or his hands. Someone turned him over. Was it his attackers? He couldn't even lift his hands to his face to shield himself from whatever came next.

"Come on!" someone, a mere shadow, muttered, voice urgent. "Fight it, Potter!"

Harry peered against the light. The dark shape over him moved slightly, but Harry couldn't make out a face, no matter how much he squinted.

The words didn't sound like an attack, they sounded like a man who had died long ago, someone whose voice Harry had never expected to hear again. Oddly enough, the last time he ever saw Snape, he ended up holding onto a dying man. Now, Harry was held up with the strong grip of someone far from dead. So surreal it seemed, as if this was all a dream and the situation was reversed: Harry was the one bleeding out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

_Am I dying? Am I already dead?_

All was dark, and quiet, and not as miserable as before. _I can't be dead. Not just yet._

And, by a stroke of sheer luck, he wasn't.

_*_

Harry struggled to take a breath. His chest felt heavy. He was drowsy and hot as if he was running a fever.

He was in a small bed by a wide window overlooking the sea. A homemade patchwork blanket with fuzzy corners was pulled over him. It was decorated with spider web embroidery, complete with one leggy spider climbing over the seams. Harry ran his finger over the curling trail it left behind and smiled. The fireplace in the corner crackled merrily. Someone obviously cared enough to not have Harry freeze to death. The pillow under his ear was fluffed up and arranged just right, and the mismatched blanket pile at the foot of the bed, some of which were also marked with the spider web embroidery, was a heavy comfort.

Harry looked around frantically. His wand was gone. _Shit._ This was practically rule number one of the basic survival protocol. Don't lose track of your wand. Whatever you do, don't lose your primary weapon. Some Auror he turned out to be.

_Brilliant._

His glasses were on a shelf by the bed. Harry squinted and reached for them, hooking the earpieces over his ears and pushing back his overgrown fringe. The view in the window looked no less unfamiliar than before, even if slightly more clear. Remains of sea lavender waved under the breeze outside, clustering around a weathered stone structure raised atop the low steps. An old monument, perhaps. There were yellow and dry patches, in the right state for the winter, several weeks ahead of their time. He could see the individual grass blades shift and tremble on the wind. Far overhead, the white dots of seagulls soared. In the distance, a fisherman's boat bobbed over the rippling waves. For the life of him, Harry couldn't tell where he was, except he was still by the coast. On a cliff overlooking the sea.

_Where am I?_

There was movement in the doorway and Harry peered at it. A dark form shifted in the corridor, someone human. Harry pushed himself deeper into the pillow and stilled, pretending to be asleep. From in between the closed eyelids he could see the shadow approaching, entering the room. Large. Looming. _This can't be good. What do I do?_

The shadowy figure grew closer, beaky and beady-eyed, becoming someone Harry hadn't expected to see alive ever again.

"Awake at last," the shadow grumbled. "About time."

_Snape._

_But I saw him die._

_What is going on? Am I dreaming?_

Harry blinked, Snape's name on his lips, and then Snape strode forth, tall and imposing as he ever was in the classroom, and spat: "While you're lucid, tell me, have you lost what little common sense still rattled in that empty skull of yours?"

_Um. Wow._

Harry drew a breath. Gaped, like that boot Portkey back on the summer's day which brought him to Atwick. He tried saying something. Tried again and failed miserably. Who could blame him? Here stood Severus Bloody Snape, lecturing _Harry_ about death and dying!

Severus Snape whose dark eyes had gone dull as his lifeless body sank down to the floor of the Shrieking Shack. A dead weight in Harry's arms. Harry felt that weight as if it had happened an hour ago. Heavy black fabric spreading across the floorboards like pooling blood, until it stretched and tore, caught on the loose nail of the floor in the shack as Harry shook the body in his arms in disbelief.

Like a dark phoenix rising from the ash and the brimstone, Snape drew himself higher, looming over Harry. "You almost died!" Snape spat from the advantage of his height, his nostrils flaring.

I _almost died? What about him? He did die! Only he somehow didn't and now he's here accusing_ me _of being irresponsible._

For a second, Harry wondered if he was dead and this was his personal version of hell: stuck in a room with Snape, for all eternity. Because, well, in a universe running on irony, that made some twisted sense.

"Looks like dying isn't as permanent as they make it sound, Professor," Harry countered, still taking in the impossible sight of Snape, looming, seething. Very much alive.

"Spare me the excuses. You look well enough to process just how far your negligence has gotten you. If I hadn't been there at the right time-"

"Um, how did that go? And how is it you are..." Harry gestured at the man. "Still here."

"Irrelevant, for the time being," Snape hmphed, leaning closer, close enough for Harry to spot the thick band of scarring over the side of his neck, right above the tall collar. "Now if you're done interrogating me, I need to check your injuries."

_What injuries? I don't understand. I... he's real, isn't he? I mean, he's right here, in front of me. He certainly sounds like Snape. And he just drew a breath. His wrists have veins. He even has a scar, right there, where... the snake bit him. Wow. This is impossible. It's all wrong. I have to check if this is real._

Still unwilling to believe his eyes, Harry reached out and clutched one sallow hand to make sure this spectacle before him wasn't about to vanish in a gust of summoned smoke. "How?" he breathed. "Tell me!"

"Magic, Potter, and proper planning. Planning and preparation."

"I saw you," Harry blurted, picturing Snape's dark stare. "I held you dying. You died!"

"Not everything you see is to be trusted," Snape spat. Snape, who had bony wrists and warm, solid hands, and seemed perfectly alive and well.

 _'Look at me,'_ Snape had said then. And that was true. It was the truest thing Harry'd ever witnessed. That had to be real. It had to be. "You made me trust you!"

And Harry had trusted Snape, he trusted Snape still. The avalanche of memories seared into Harry's mind made sure of that. The memories of a dead man, or so Harry thought at a time.

Snape's mouth twisted in an unpleasant smirk. "Foolish of you. But then you always had a poor habit of gambling with your life and convictions."

"Worked out so far, didn't it?" Harry countered. He couldn't help but think Snape had all the bedside manner of a circling shark.

With one touch of spidery fingers, Snape instructed Harry to turn and position himself on the bed until he faced the window. Then he felt a patient hand unravelling the bandages at his back.

Even Madam Pomfrey hadn't gone through all that trouble healing Harry's scrapes. She had always either summoned the house-elves to her aid or resorted to the simplest of spells for the menial tasks. Snape was far too thorough, and for what, so Harry had no chance to snatch Snape's wand from him? That proved once and for all that Harry was a captive here. It was probably all a giant trick to keep Harry guessing, to get him to lower his guard. Harry's mind was still trying to process how Severus _Sodding_ Snape could even be here after all this time!

"You're doing everything by hand?" Harry grumbled in confusion, annoyed by the dull ache in his chest keeping him from taking deeper breaths. "Why? M'not going to steal your wand or anything. Speaking of, if you give me mine, I'll be on my way."

"You." The weight of a hand settled down over Harry's shoulder, nudged him into place. "Are not going anywhere. At least not any time soon."

 _Knew it! He's up to something._ "Now wait a second! What kind of stupid rule is that? And where is my wand?"

"I found you disarmed, Potter. And more to the point..." The last strip of bandages was pushed down onto Harry's lap, leaving his chest bare and Harry glanced down, gasping at the terrible view. The bandages were smothered with some clear poultice, and none of it masked the stomach-roiling spectacle right in the middle of his chest, the sight that explained every bit of the dull ache, of the pressure spreading outwards from it.

In the centre of a mangled wound, an embedded multi-point star sat deep. It was the barely recognisable shape of the Order of Merlin, just like the one Harry had left in his rooms, but the gold was tarnished black and bloody, the green ribbon burned into a crisp, sharp metallic point digging into his inflamed flesh like the claws of a hungry tick. The flesh around the metal gadget swelled black and blue, with the veiny branches of darkness spreading all across his ribcage. Sinister glow emanated from the centre of the star, marking it as an unmistakable dark artefact.

_They hexed it. They found one somewhere just like mine and hexed it and then hexed me with it. And for what?_

"Get it off me, now!" Harry drew his breath in a hiss and reached for the horrible thing clawing its way inwards. He felt it shiver and pulse and push in as soon as he lifted his hand to it. Is this what made his breathing so shallow? He thought it was the air inside the room because of the burning fireplace, but this was worse. He was suffocating, and this thing was making it harder to take the next breath and the next.

"Keep calm! Keep breathing," Snape instructed and it must've been that clinical instruction that kept Harry sane enough to follow the commands to the letter.

 _All right, calm down, I've gotta be calm._ Harry thought. _There's an explanation for all of this. It has to be my Order of Merlin. But that makes no sense._

"I've been unable to remove it," Snape continued. "It's resisting all counterspells and most human touch. In fact, spells make it worse. We must limit your exposure to magic until I find a safe way to extract it."

"You? Why should you be the one to do it? Just give me your wand, I'll go to straight to St Mungo's, I promise."

"Have you not heard a word I said? If you cast spells, it _will_ spread. If you Apparate, it may very well kill you."

"Oh." The weight over his ribcage eased and Harry drew a cautious breath. "Who would do something like this?"

Snape did not answer for a while. When he spoke, his mouth was in a grim line. "It's a message for me. One I was foolish enough to accept, at a great personal risk."

"You risked your life rescuing me?"

_Just like back in school, Snape always did end up doing just that. For me. And I never appreciated it until it was too late._

Harry thought back on the day he received the Order of Merlin, shining and flawless, pinned onto his chest by Kingsley's steady hand. Harry had given a speech then, dedicating the medal to the two men he thought dead, the two he mourned among many others; the bravest men he knew, or that's what he said then to the entire crowd listening: Albus Dumbledore. Severus Snape.

Someone out there must have disliked that speech. Enough to hold a terrible grudge. Enough to bide their time to strike, and to plot out a vicious counter-answer. To use Harry as a pawn to be sacrificed in a game where Harry didn't know all the players. Snape was definitely involved, that much was clear.

"The question remains," Snape stated softly. "Who among my many enemies had the means to learn of my survival and the nerve to take on the infamous Boy Who Lived?" He practically growled the last words. His touch, however, felt patient and practised, as Snape's fingers scooped out the poultice from the small jar and applied it with unexpected care over Harry's chest. Harry wanted desperately to comment on Snape's bedside manner but he wasn't quite that suicidal. He bit his tongue instead. Snape didn't seem to mind the silence.

"It's not reacting," Harry frowned, not feeling the awful thing contract or pulse. "Why isn't it reacting to you?"

"I have no intention to remove it," Snape answered. "Not at the moment. Besides," his left hand, the one with the dormant Mark shifted, working slow and steady. His teeth bared in a vicious snarl. "It seems fond of my Mark. Now hold still."

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_bed.jpg)

*

After Snape had left him alone, disappearing down the corridor, Harry took stock of his state and possessions. One battle injury, magical, check. Pyjamas, grey and long, check. One water glass, half-full, by the bed - check. Glasses - check. He had no plan. No wand. No answers to so many questions. He wondered if the pyjamas were Snape's.

His stomach growled.

Harry adjusted the glasses on his nose and peered out of the window. On the bright side, he was in the relative safety of what appeared to be a cosy but small place on the coast. He was still alive.

Snape was still alive! That was definitely a plus! Hard to believe. Brilliant, regardless. Now that he had a chance to process things further, Harry could hug Snape for showing up like he did, for rescuing him from certain death brought on by his own stupid negligence.

How bloody stupid did he have to be to go walking around without expecting an attack? He had grown too lazy, too inattentive, lulled into a sleepy calm by the atmosphere of the Muggle village. And look where it had landed him.

Wandless, injured, in Snape's not so tender care.

Merlin, he missed having a wand. Not holding it was weird and left him feeling bereft. Harry preferred to be left without his glasses rather than the wand. He felt like a toddler without the means to perform the simplest of spells or to summon help if needed.

_Argh. Just great._

He was stuck in this mystery house and he couldn't use magic. And to make things even weirder, he now depended on Snape for the simplest of things.

Harry squared his shoulders and pushed the blanket aside. If he was stuck here, the least he could do was try walking again, and the sooner the better. His legs felt all wobbly and weak, and the room started spinning as soon as he attempted to sit up.

Harry clutched the sheets and pulled them up again. It was getting chilly. And being in a tiny, unfamiliar room growing quiet and dim, Harry really missed his spells, his friends, and even his accommodations at Atwick. He thought he could feel the curse in his chest thudding in tune with his quickened heartbeat, but that was surely just nerves. A trick of perception. He let out a long breath.

_Worrying won't help a thing. I need to think this through._

_What do I do? What can I do?_ Harry couldn't possibly walk out of here, not with Snape's 'many enemies' lying in wait, just waiting for Harry to show up, so they could stick another cursed artefact on him, or worse, in him! Brr. Harry hated long-acting curses. He couldn't fight them and he couldn't kill one in a duel. It was all just waiting and trying things and hoping that it made a difference in the end. What kind of twisted bastard ever made such a thing? They could have made all kinds of useful things in the time it took to create this twisted, horrible mess. How much of a vengeful sod did you have to be to make something like this?

_Wait a minute, Snape's a vengeful sod himself, maybe he feels right at home figuring this stuff out. It's like reading his own writing or something. He'd know what to do. He definitely will._

If anyone knew what to do, it was Snape. Harry was right where he needed to be to fix this.

_Only..._

_Bloody hell. I'm stuck with Snape for a nurse, what can possibly go wrong now?_

*

In the evening Harry scratched at the bristle on his chin, contemplating asking Snape for a razor, when he overheard two voices talking in the next room. One was familiar, the other not so much. It was a witch whose abrupt tones reminded Harry of a crow's cackling caw.

"Milk, sugar, tea," the witch listed with impatience. "Do you need any more eggs?"

"Yes. Bread too."

"Tsk. You should have more than toast. Get some fat on that bony frame of yours."

"Ma!"

 _Ma? As in... his mum?_ Harry's eyes went wide, and he listened with bated breath. It's not every day one heard the living proof of Snape being a regular human, with a family. A mother, and a nagging one, from what it sounded like. Snape had a mother! Well, of course, everyone did, but Snape's mum wasn't someone Harry ever cared to think about.

"Fine, fine," the witch grumbled. "Do as you will, you always have. But you'll be sorry."

"I already am!"

"You have no one to blame but yourself. You didn't have to get involved."

"What was I to do? Half-dead youngsters hell-bent on heroism don't usually drop out of the sky in the first shower of rain."

_Hmph. I'm not hell-bent on anything! They attacked me! It's not like I went looking for trouble._

The witch released her frustration in a deep and showy sigh. "Someone is toying with you, that much is clear."

The voices carried, loud and clear. Perhaps it was the size of the place, or the paper-thin walls, or the lack of Muffliato Charms in Harry's proximity. Snape's tone rose to a point of mild distress. "He was dumped by _your_ backyard with a cursed artefact embedded in his chest."

"How close to the house?" the witch interrupted. "Did they cross the Protection Spell boundary?"

"No. But it took significant effort to rescue him without sacrificing my wards. Or my well-being. I am well aware when I'm being played without you pointing it out."

"And yet you're still playing their game. Haven't you learned enough from _that_!" Harry guessed that whatever Snape's mum was pointing to had to be the scar on his neck. It's what he'd do. "Severus, if this turns around to bite you on your scrawny arse, I shall _not_ be pleased. And then, mark my words, you will regret this."

"No more than I already do. Now, more to the point. Chicken broth. Porridge. Liquor."

There was a loud hmph. "You ought to get rid of the lad today, not play nursemaid. I've said so before and I'll say it again, Aurors are nothing but trouble. Especially Potter."

"You know precisely why I cannot. Nor can I fetch my own supplies. You've warned me yourself to stay far away from town."

"And you shall do so until the coast is clear. It's bad enough they tracked you down within a mile of this place. What good is Fidelius if they catch you taking food from the Muggles, hm? As your Secret Keeper-"

"You don't have to rub it in _every_ time you visit."

"Well, I was obviously your best choice. Who else were you going to ask?"

"Anyone but the present company."

"Oh, Severus. I swear, you haven't changed a bit since you were an infant. Always biting at the tit that fed you."

 _Ew!_ Harry made a face. That's one thing he did _not_ need to hear about no matter how much it made the corners of his mouth twitch with glee!

"Ma!" The indignant growl carried across the corridor. "You've had your fun. It's high time for you to leave."

Harry snorted, and muffled a longer laugh with his pillow. He entertained himself picturing Snape's seething expression in the other room. Oh, how he wished he could see it! Snape's mother was all right in Harry's book. Anyone who could outdo Snape with endless bickering was an unsung hero!

A short-lived sense of second-hand triumph couldn't last long amid all the worries rushing through Harry's mind, but he could spare a moment to appreciate the bit of humour, brief as that moment was.

*

The following morning, Harry called out to the kitchen and asked for Snape's share of scrambled eggs, not porridge, to save Snape the trouble of additional cooking: he wasn't that sick! Besides, Snape had already earned the honorary title of the worst nurse ever, just by being himself. Harry didn't need to give the sadistic sod extra opportunities to seethe and stare and let out his snarky nature. He'd wondered if the liquor Snape had asked for yesterday would help matters and mellow out the bitey git any. _I reckon not. It's Snape!_

"So," Harry said, mid-bite, "Your mum, huh. She sounds, um, caring."

Snape's eyes flashed at him from the doorway. His lips thinned in a sharp line. _Uh-oh, that had been the wrong thing to say._ Harry gulped, swallowing the last bite of his scrambled eggs, and sank back into the pillows.

"She did sound like she cared about you. Not that I heard much of it," he offered.

"The less said about my mother, the better," Snape's eyebrows arched sharp and threatening. "In fact, it'd do us all some good to forget the harpy exists. Not that she isn't insistent on leaving reminders."

For all his grumbling, Snape didn't appear to be particularly vicious about his insults. Harry coughed, trying not to smile. Dealing with Snape in this grumpy mood was much easier when he imagined a cranky baby with a scrunched-up face, black greasy curl on the forehead, and a full set of sharp teeth. _I'll never get that thought out of my mind now. All thanks to Snape's mum._

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_baby.jpg)

After breakfast, Harry was directed to peel off his bandages and stay still as Snape examined his wound, tsked, and spent a good half-hour prying at the cursed trinket in the middle of Harry's chest. He applied at least three kinds of salves of varying consistency and colour to it, and then rested his hand over it as if warming it up. Harry couldn't feel the touch all that well, the entire area was numb and heavy, with an occasional tingle which couldn't have been a good thing and probably meant the curse's reach was spreading. Snape murmured something long and Latin and, at the same time, his fingertips touched the centre of Harry's chest, one nail hooked under the top point of the star. And then WHOA, _it HURTS!_ Harry screamed bloody murder as the trinket seized and dug itself deeper. He backed away with a yelp, scrambling before even realising he went against Snape's instructions of holding still. _Snape would be furious!_ He watched those nostrils flare, no doubt gathering up air for a long and loud tirade.

"Breathe through it," Snape advised instead with an expression which bore no anger, but had to be... compassion. It didn't flatter his features one bit. "You must calm down. This will pass."

Harry was still seeing red, flooding the corners of his vision, and his entire chest felt like someone had tried gouging it open. He tasted salt on his tongue where he must've bitten it.

"Easy for you to say," he hissed. And with a deep sigh, continued, trying to calm his shaking breath. "Ow!"

"It has embedded itself too deeply to be extracted by hand," Snape commented with a scowl. "But perhaps it's still possible to confuse the spell's intent."

"Huh. Confuse what? How? Hey, hang on, where are you going?"

Snape left the room, striding out derisively and returned carrying a few items. A glass of water, which he offered to Harry, and four strips of silk, all silvery and see-through like gauze.

"I require four types of bodily fluids," Snape spat, as if listing ingredients for the Dreamless Sleep in front of Harry in class. "Blood, sweat, and tears are customary. I suggest you use spit to satisfy the last requirement. Shouldn't take you more than an hour."

 _An hour! This isn't Potions class! And he is clearly expecting me to just go along with it?_ Harry peered at Snape, speechless. _Wow. It's a surprise he didn't have me slice open a vein right here and now. The sadistic sod would enjoy it far too much._

*

Once he was alone again with a silky handful of ribbons, Harry released a deep sigh which ruffled their ends. _I suppose I should be thankful there are only four. I can think of a few fluids I'd think twice about parting with on Snape's command, even if it would save my life._

_Anyway, no time like the present._

He tilted his head and lifted the first ribbon to his mouth, giving it an earnest lick and then setting it aside.

He swiped the second one over his brow and laid it down, folded in two, away from the first sample. All morning he had felt as if he was running a low fever, so cold sweat was nothing he couldn't spare. He humphed at the third one, then pressed it over his bitten lower lip, marking the white fabric with three tiny red dots.

 _One more to go. Couldn't Snape ask for something simple, like earwax? I'm fine with sacrificing all my earwax for Snape's experiment. It's not like I ever have any use for it._ Harry narrowed his eyes at the ribbon and sighed in frustration.

There was a problem in whatever plan Snape wanted Harry to go along with.

Ever since the war, since Hogwarts, Harry couldn't remember how to cry. Sure, he remembered turning numb with horrible loss during the funerals, and then thawing enough from that awful stupor to be furious. But through it all, even in anger, or in absolute terrifying stillness, the tears hadn't come.

So how was he supposed to cry now, on command, if he hadn't been able to cry then?

He took a frantic breath. _An hour to go... Less now._

Harry took his glasses off and carefully stilled on his side on the bed, under the heavy blanket.

Was it odd he hadn't cried for quite some time? That he seemed incapable of it? What if he'd never again be able to? It wasn't too weird, right, to go through life without crying? Some people just couldn't do it, and that was fine, great even. Not too odd, considering, for a bloke.

It didn't mean he was all wrong or broken. Harry glanced down at his bandaged chest and his mouth twisted in a rueful smirk. Not any more than he already was.

Harry winced and rubbed at his eyes. His eyelids felt as dry as sandpaper.

_Shit._

He stared at the stubborn strip of fabric in frustration, wanting to ball it up in his fist and tear it apart to shreds. He hated this. And he hated the stubborn git who had come up with the plan.

How messed up was it, not to cry? At all? Harry pictured Hermione in the funeral crowd a few years ago, tilting her face up to the wind, and blinking away the wetness in her eyes as she gripped Ron's hand. He remembered holding Ron's shaking form, his face hot and wet with desperation and tears against Harry's shoulder, his fists twisting the back of Harry's robe. He thought of Ginny having a good long cry far up in the night sky as she and Harry took their brooms up to the clouds with an armful of Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs and a bottle of Firewhisky, a year after... everything.

From what he remembered of himself at the victory speeches and the funerals, Harry had stood there shell-shocked, steered around through it all like a doll by his well-meaning friends. Entire days, weeks, felt like an endless scream as so many people he held dear had disappeared into the darkness, a cry abruptly silenced like Hedwig's final, horrible screech.

And yet Harry had carried on, putting one foot in front of the other, as he discovered the strength of his anger, and channelled it toward his progress at the Auror Academy, so he could hunt down every bastard who had caused this: hunt them down and bring them to justice and stop something like this from ever happening to someone else. Because no one deserved it. None of his friends did. It was the exact opposite of fair. This brutality was cruel and senseless and so final. So many lives turned upside down by a group of mindless zealots, and for what? Power? And the rest of them had to live with the tremendous loss, changed forever by it. That was not right. No magic spell, no words existed that would make that OK.

And Harry still didn't cry! How bloody messed up was that! When George had been a shadow of himself. When Hermione's parents still couldn't remember their only daughter. When Teddy Lupin was growing up without his mum and dad. _All because of this stupid. Bloody. War!_

He dug his nails so deep into the ribbon, it frayed and tore into two pieces. But it didn't matter. He clutched the remains and pressed angry fists against his closed eyelids, his jaw tense, chin twitching, expression frozen in an agonizing mask. His throat spasmed with dull hurt.

 _Breathe through it._ The steadying words came, unexpected. _Calm down. This will pass._

Harry breathed in, then out. And the spasm subsided. He kept on breathing and the heat in his lungs cooled.

As he lowered his hands and blinked, he realised that Snape stood in the doorway, still and quiet, holding something in his right hand.

An onion slice.

_For me? Oh. Must be to make me tear up._

Harry stared at the pieces of silk in his grasp, mangled and damp, and felt like an utter fool sitting there. A complete mess he had made of things.

"I see you have everything under control," Snape said curtly, not a hint of the expected mockery in his tone. "Twenty minutes early. I'll take these, shall I?"

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to talk. Not trusting himself to move. His face flooded with heat. His vision was watery. Something tickled his lower eyelid, fell down.

Sallow fingers reached out, collecting the pieces of ribbon from Harry's palm and the touch lingered just a half-a-second longer than necessary. It was warm and ordinary, just like Ron or Hermione's touch.

Harry withdrew with a timid twitch of his shoulders, reaching for his glasses. _Don't make this a big deal, just don't. Act natural,_ he told himself. _His hands are warm... Just like all those times I'd dreamed they'd be when I... No, stop, can't think of that now! But they are rather warm. Warmer than mine._

The discovery didn't feel as odd as it should have been.

*

Snape was absent for most of the afternoon. He passed through the corridor now and then, unobtrusive, but clearly intending to check on Harry. Harry spent a good five minutes being quiet as he staggered over to the door, curious to see what Snape was up to. The small kitchen, barely large enough for two people to fit between the table and the stove, was empty. A few flasks sat on a wooden table without a tablecloth. Something bubbled merrily on the stove, steam rising from the uncovered pan. Harry sniffed curiously, but it didn't smell like food. The entrance door was ajar, so Snape must've been outside. From what Harry could glimpse through the kitchen window, there were remains of a garden. The noise of hurried footsteps came from the front steps and Harry ducked back into the room he was supposed to be in, glimpsing a tiny corner with a camp bed at the end of the corridor. It must've been where Snape spent his nights.

_Ho hum, just act natural. I'm not wandering around and checking out every corner, and I'm definitely not peeking at Snape's sleeping arrangements. Not at all. I'm just going to go back quietly, right into my room, and do something even Snape can't possibly complain about. Though what wouldn't he complain about?_

As Harry stumbled over to the loo and almost fell flat on his arse on the way back, a hand steadied his shoulder and steered him toward the bed.

_Whoa. Where'd Snape come from?_

"I have everything prepared," Snape told him. "Do I have your permission to try again?"

Harry nodded.

"It will hurt," Snape warned bluntly.

Harry squared his shoulders and looked up grimly. "Do what you need to do."

He twisted and turned as Snape peeled off the bandages with a practised hand. With concern, Harry noticed that the blackened area of cursed flesh had spread nearly to his clavicles, and the centre had cracked and peeled like snakeskin.

"Lean back," Snape instructed in a sharp tone, and Harry did.

The Order of Merlin sat in the centre of his inflamed chest, emitting a dim red glow. Once in a while, Harry thought he felt it crackle with pent-up fury, like a small zap of electricity reaching almost all the way to his heart. He didn't want to think what would happen if it did.

He drew in a frantic breath, trying to keep calm.

"One, two..." Snape warned. The ribbons Snape had collected from him were now braided into a cord, secured into a tight circle with their own fraying threads. Their shape reminded Harry of a snake biting its own tail. The circle was the size of Harry's palm, just wide enough to cover the entire medal.

Snape lifted it up to Harry's bare chest, tilting it to frame the cursed object and turning it now and then, as if positioning a compass. Between two cautious breaths, Harry felt lightness in his chest.

"Hm," he said. "I think it's working."

Snape's stare didn't flicker. His hands were steady with inhuman precision. In his left hand, he kept turning the braided ring, and his right was poised right over the cursed star, ready to strike any second now...

_Come on, do it! Almost..._

Harry felt a telltale twitch inside, an angry zap of realised betrayal. "Snape," he warned just as the star constricted, its sharp edges vibrating and cutting deeper into his ribcage until he felt the angry buzz of it in his bones.

_Shit. Too late._

Harry gasped for air. His lungs were on fire. His chest felt crushed by an invisible band. He could feel his shoulders growing numb, and there was a weight on the bottom of his throat, as if he was sinking deeper and deeper into the watery slush of an icy pond.

Snape flung the cord aside and reached out, and if his arm hadn't been there to support Harry at that moment, Harry would have collapsed. "Easy," Snape said. "Easy, Potter."

"Huh," Harry struggled to breathe, and every shallow breath was a fresh victory. "It's _angry_."

He looked down at the blood dripping down his ribs onto the pile of bandages, onto the blanket. "Ow. Sorry 'bout the bed." There was so much blood. His head spun, dizziness catching him unaware.

With his Marked arm, Snape gathered the bandages and the sheets in a heap and pressed it against Harry's chest, putting pressure on the wound. He hummed a low and steady chant which didn't seem to set off any alarms in Harry's chest as he lowered Harry down onto the bed and only then reached for the jar of salve. "That's enough for today," he said, hovering like a vulture at Harry's bedside.

So final, the declaration seemed. "Are you giving up?" Harry asked softly. "We can't give up just like that! It has to have a weakness, somewhere. Right?"

In the low light, Snape's mouth twisted in a grim line. "Something's missing. We'll try again tomorrow."

Those words made tomorrow sound all too ominous in Harry's mind.

*

_During Harry's second year at the Auror Academy, he and Ron were paired up, going one against another, in an artificial maze meant to represent a Muggle neighbourhood. The maze consisted of picturesque houses too small to be real, each with a white picket fence, and the streets paved with tarmac, clean and narrow, framed by overgrown hedges. Harry frowned at the thought of another maze, their fourth year at Hogwarts and the memory of Cedric at his side, no longer a crush then, much more than a crush: a human being, dying while Harry lived._

_Harry hated every single moment of that exercise, just hated the thought of having to hex his best friend._ I'm not going to do it, _he told himself._ Even if it means failing. _Let Ron have his fun, and let him think he's won._

_With his mind made up, he hurried through the charmed maze as the street lights flickered overhead, as ominous as if they were dimmed by the Dementors. Something was chasing after him._

_Harry sped up, took a left turn, then right. They were inside a large hall, that much he knew, but the sky above him looked so real, charmed with storm clouds, like the artificial ceiling at the Great Hall in Hogwarts. And now those storm clouds were gathering and gathering, all chasing after Harry. One after the other, the lights were dimming, leaving nighttime gloom in their wake._

_There was a noise to his left. Harry stilled behind the corner, then dropped to the ground, kneeling._

_A tall, lanky shadow emerged from the dim alleyway to his left. It had a wand out. That had to be Ron. Harry coughed, not bothering to be quiet._

_The first spell hit the branch right above Harry's ear. Harry could hear it slice through the air with an angry buzz but was too overwhelmed with energy to pay much attention._

_Harry ducked, and stepped forward from his hiding space. He put up a magical shield, taking a chance that Ron's next spell would be something that could be deflected back at him. It was a simple Stunner and flew back, fizzling out at Ron's feet. It seemed that Ron wasn't too much into the idea of harming Harry either._

_Knowing that made Harry more frustrated._ Can't he just hex me and be done with it? It'll all be over then!

_"Come on," he shouted, taking down his Shielding spell, and striding forward, not bothering with any protection this time. "Want an easy win, do you? So come and get me!" Not thinking of it, not aiming, he pointed his wand forward and cast. Then cast again._

_"Hey!"_

_A second Stunner whooshed past his ear. Harry didn't stop, seeing red, and seeing corpses in his mind. Picturing Voldemort's rising wand, and the terrible words: "Kill the spare." He pictured Mr Diggory's ashen face._

_He couldn't allow something like that to happen ever again. He had to become an Auror, he had to win this._

_"Impedimenta!" Ron shouted at him._

_"Locomotor Mortis!" It was a foolish move to bind Ron's feet and not his hands. He still had his wand in his grip, but still, Ron toppled on the ground, as heavy and as final as Cedric's body once did, absolutely still amid the cheering crowd. Harry almost dropped his wand at that thought, but Ron was still moving. He definitely moved his arm._ He's alive, _Harry assured himself. This isn't the Triwizard Tournament. This is just an exercise, a stupid one._ One we have to complete to pass one more year.

_Harry approached Ron, not thinking about the exercise any longer, not caring who was watching them or assigning grades. The streetlights were now flickering back on, shining brightly._

_"Harry," Ron pointed at something on Harry's face. "Sit down, you've got... er..."_

_Something warm and wet dripped from Harry's ear, right down his back._

_Harry raised his hand to his head and then brought it to his face. Something didn't feel right, his mind was foggy and then his vision swam. His fingers were dark with something liquid and warm and it smelled metallic._

_So much blood._

_"Tergeo," Ron said. "Oh wow, Harry. Your ear. I'm so sorry."_

_"Don't be," Harry snapped. "Just keep going."_

_"Harry..."_

_"Keep going, I said!" Harry gripped his wand and pointed it at his opponent, trying not to think of him as Ron. "FIGHT!"_

_Ron stepped back, his face ashen._

_"Fight me, right now!"_

_Ron's wand hand shook._

_"Now, Ron! CAST, DAMMIT!"_

_"Yeah! We never would have got this far if it wasn't for you, Harry!" Ron babbled later that evening over a celebratory pint. "You were fearless! What's your secret?"_

_Harry shook his head and covered his ear, still slightly sore from the magical cut. "Dunno." He shrugged. "Must be just determined not to let the bad guys win any more than they have to."_

_But deep inside, he still felt that empty desperation of not caring, not worrying about what hex came after him next. Of lowering his shields and stepping in front of the enemy fire, even if it was just Ron this time._

This can't end well, _Harry told himself._ I'll be more careful next time. It'll watch my side and my back. I'll make sure to stay undercover longer. I am not a complete idiot.

_But that sense of recklessness made him feel something, anything, other than mindless anger over a past he couldn't change. It lit a fire in his heart and kept him rushing ahead into danger. On and on, one challenge after the other. Only Harry realised just what he was gambling with every battle, every duel, every exercise and every foe he faced. The answer wasn't a good one, but he shoved the knowledge down, unwilling to admit to himself just how complicated it all was._

_Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived: a suicidal wreck._

*

In the evening, a new stack of folded sheets appeared on Harry's bed, fresh and crisp. So were his bandages. His chest no longer felt as if an iron band was crushing it whole. His breaths were shallow but steady.

Beforehand, Snape had used an ordinary brown sponge to clean the blood off. The warm water in the shallow white bowl had soon turned red. Harry had watched the precise, cautious movements and marvelled at just how much Snape's touch didn't match Snape's acerbic tone or his gloomy stares. His touch was cautious and gentle as if Harry was a timid colt. It betrayed concern. It showed that the greasy sod gave a damn about Harry.

"So, how did you survive, back there in the Shack?" Harry asked him. "I saw you die. I felt it." There had been that awful stillness when Snape no longer moved. As his stare had no longer been coherent and all those memories poured out from him, released in a fog, like a Patronus, dying.

The sponge on Harry's abdomen stilled for a second before resuming its broad stroke.

"I almost died, but I didn't. Thanks to a bezoar, at first. Then a Blood-Replenishing Potion. And most of all, my mother," Snape added softly. "She has a knack for appearing at the right place when least expected."

"That's... lucky," Harry mumbled, not knowing how to feel about everyone in the world including Snape having a mum, someone who cared and worried. "You're fortunate, I mean. To have her help."

"She's never let me forget it since. It made all the difference, I suppose. Mother used to say I'd perish of the bubonic plague if anything had half a chance to put me out of my misery."

That sounded as though Snape had admitted something personal, even though he didn't have to. Harry listened, holding his breath. For the first time, Snape was saying something longer than a spat-out command. It was as if they were having a conversation at last, in that small room with a view of the stormy sea.

And then, the contrary sod had to cut Harry's reminiscence short, as he exited to the kitchen. The place was so small, Harry could map out the remaining rooms by the sound of Snape's footsteps in the corridor, by the creaking of the floorboards in the kitchen, and then, nothing at all. The sound of the tap, the water running, then being shut off again interrupted the silence. Shortly after, Snape returned with a fresh bowl of water and a rinsed-out sponge.

"Unless there's anything else you need, I'll let you finish up," said Snape, with an awkward kind of courtesy which he'd never shown in class, and left again, leaving Harry to peel his trousers off and sponge up his thighs and crotch until he didn't smell metallic or feel sticky anymore. Harry glanced at the clean pair of pyjama bottoms Snape had left out for him. Who did they belong to?

 _Does it matter? It's just hand-me-downs._ Harry slid into them, pulled at the drawstring, and groaned as he gathered the bloodied sheets and pulled them off the bed. At least the pillow was free of blood splatters.

Just as suspected, Snape emerged again, as if from a nearby shadow, that forbidding tone sounding right by Harry's ear and making him jump with surprise. "Leave it. Save your energy for tomorrow."

Harry could do nothing else but watch Snape change his bedsheets, leaning sheepishly against the bedside chair. Being this useless was an annoyance. His hands itched to do something, anything, like smooth out the corners of the sheet over the mattress, but Snape's routine seemed practised and swift, giving Harry no opportunity to step in. _Like magic,_ Harry thought. _He's moving just like a spell would move to make the bed at the flick of a wand. How did he learn that? Seriously. The house-elves take care of that at Hogwarts. Did the suspicious sod refuse to let anyone near his bedroom, even the house-elves? But in that case, why make the bed at all? I wouldn't._

"Is there anything else?" A direct question interrupted Harry's musings.

His bed was made, as pristine as a bed in the Infirmary. Harry walked up to it and ran one finger over the fuzzy blanket. "Um, I'm fine. Thanks," he said.

With a curt nod, Snape stepped aside.

"Wait... Snape?"

"Yes?"

Harry looked up at Snape, standing tall, framed by the low doorway. "Do you have any mediwizard training?"

"No."

"Well, you're pretty good at this."

Snape paused, as if unsure whether to voice something. "I used to look after my father," he said at last. "When he was still alive."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. His thoughts jumped to a young boy cowering in the corner of a dirty room and the angry voices below. "I'm sorry. Was he ill?"

"No. A drunk."

"Oh."

"Never thought I'd say this, but you're a model patient in comparison," Snape said softly. There was a pause as Harry stared at him in surprise. And then Snape spun on his heels and paused only when he reached the doorway. "Good night, Mr Potter."

That night, Harry lay against the sheets he remembered being smoothed by sallow hands and stared at the cracks in the whitewashed ceiling. That cautious spidery touch. _Easy, Potter._

 _Breathe through it,_ an instruction breathed into his ear, warming his earlobe, ruffling his hair.

_"I require a fifth body fluid, Potter. Semen will suffice. Five minutes from now. I'll stay here for observation. Proceed." Those dark eyes wouldn't miss a thing and he'd just stare at me... With that expectant look, and his lips would press together and then part, and... Oh, god, this shouldn't be so hot to think about. This is wrong._

Harry took a hurried breath and clenched his hands into the sheets. He closed his eyes shut and shook his head as if to shake his mind free of such thoughts.

_Oh, no. Nonono! I'm not doing this. I'm using Snape this way to distract me from what don't want to face. All those daydreams about the Half-Blood Prince in sixth year were bad enough! I'm not in school anymore and I'm bloody well done being an infatuated teenager!_

He exhaled, ruffling his fringe and parting it.

_There's zero chance the greasy sod swings that way, anyway. And not when he remembers me taking a stroll through his most embarrassing of memories, and not when I look like my Dad. That's like... Well, me giving Piers Polkiss a go. Ew!_

Well, the image of that rat-like, smug face killed Harry's enthusiasm for any daydreams about Snape.

As Harry stayed still, bandaged up by Snape's careful hand, he could feel the hexed trinket pulsing heavy and hot in the middle of his chest every time he took a laboured breath, his chest still feeling like an iron band tightened around it.

_Well, I reckon I've got a chest monster. Dunno what else to call it..._

He slid his arms around himself. _I'll be alright,_ he tried to assure himself. _Snape's alive and here. He's working on it. He's got it under control._

Maybe if Harry said it to himself often enough he'd believe it. He'd forget all about that nagging desire of not wanting to be rescued by anyone. Or saved by anyone. Or remembered. By anyone at all. A need to disappear. Deep down inside, he felt a sense of desperation, that pull of stepping up to the sea cliff and considering just for a second plunging down. That sense of carelessness, nested deep inside that grew and grew to a near-suicidal order of magnitude, ever since the war ended. It was what had got him here today, wasn't it?

It's what had prompted him to step in front of every curse during the Academy training, of risking limb and life too many times to count on a dare, of facing opponents that were too dangerous and emerging victorious by chance. His peers applauded, even admired Harry's bravery, and so, day by day, Harry learned to tell himself it's what any Gryffindor, any Auror would do. It made things much easier, with the worry and the unease shoved deep down, and Hermione's concerned inquiries brushed aside. After all, Harry wasn't doing anything Ron hadn't at least tried before. With time, it became easier to lie not only to the others but to himself.

But what if the trinket could sense Harry's deepest emotions? What if it _knew_? Knew that there were moments in Harry's life, foggy and dull days after the war when he didn't care about anything at all, much less taking another breath? Not because risking his life meant saving someone, but because he wanted things to end. What if that numbness, that horrible emptiness, was still inside Harry, locked away in his mind somewhere, shoved down deep and waiting to be exploited? What if the hex could reach right in and pull it out and feed on it? What if it grew stronger because once, Harry Potter was too much of a bloody coward to get up in the morning and want to keep on living?

A deathly chill spread through his chest, piercing and pulsing, alien as a blade pulled through his gut.

The hex knew Harry's weaknesses. It fed on them. It relied on them to grow stronger.

And Harry couldn't help but feel he was giving it exactly what it needed to thrive. To dig its claws deeper in and burrow its way inside, steady and permanent, and deadly.

 _I'm not giving up,_ he thought to himself, against the dull burn in his chest. _Snape didn't give up despite the odds and I won't either._ _I'm fighting back, you bastard. And you don't stand a chance. Snape and I will win and we'll hunt down whoever put you in me, 'cause you and whoever made you will not stop me from living my life._

The monstrous thing that jammed itself against his sternum quieted as if taken aback by Harry's sudden resolve. Or perhaps it too, like Harry, was gathering strength for the next attack.

*

In the morning, the jarring voice was back in the kitchen, waking Harry up. The door to his room was ajar and besides, the walls were thin. From what Harry has seen of the place, it seemed pretty crammed and small. A one-storey shack rather than a cottage.

"... and Severus, keep your barbs to yourself. I got you everything you've asked for."

There was the rustle of a cardboard box, then a groan. "How much liquor did you _think_ I'd need!"

"What? I am planning ahead. Aurors can be _such_ a headache."

"Can't imagine what you mean by that."

"Just saying. The lad will drive you to drink in no time. I am helping that along, what with my copious amounts of quality booze."

Harry could swear he heard a hint of a smirk in that tone.

"Is he still resting? I should have a word with the young man since he's staying under the roof I've kept secret and visitor-free for so long."

"He doesn't need your bad influence. Don't wake him."

"Hmph, maybe next time. I am curious what makes a sensible lad snap and sign his life away to the Ministry's clutches, Severus. He can't be of sound mind to make that decision. None of you young men are these days."

"He doesn't need your interrogations right now. That's the last thing anyone needs."

"Nonsense. Everyone could use a good verbal smack upside their head now and then. You turned out just fine for it. Oh, by the way, dittany and poppy seeds are in the bag with the valerian root. Have you made _any_ progress?"

"I'm working on it, Ma."

"Hmph. I'm only asking because it speeds up letting go of our unexpected guest, mind you. I could help take a look at..."

"Oh, no. No! One set of eyes is more than enough. I shudder to think how the curse would react to your magic."

"Regardless, I brought two flasks of the linseed oil, I think you will need it. The boy may use the extra spirits as well. For the pain, if he gets tired of barfing up your brews."

Snape replied with something sharp and unsubtle, but Harry couldn't hear it audibly.

"And Severus?" Eileen's loud voice carried much better than Snape's across the thin walls of the house.

"Yes?"

"Be careful. In case something doesn't work out. Human corpses are such a tricky thing to transfigure under pressure. All those organs... And don't get me started on the stains."

"I doubt it will come to that. But do take care as well."

There was a wolfish chuckle. "Always, Severus. It's why you asked me to keep your secrets, didn't you?"

*

Dinner was a quiet affair. Snape had carried two steaming plates over to Harry's bed and Harry was grateful for the gesture.

"Hungry?"

"Starving! Can eat a hippogriff. This isn't a hippogriff, is it?" Harry grabbed his fork and twisted it, plunging it into the pasta.

Snape's sour expression showed exactly what he thought of Harry's joke.

 _He probably likes it, just hides it really well. Yeah!_ Harry grinned anyway. "Sorry, I'm not really dressed for a proper dinner." He shoved his fringe back and pushed up his glasses and was still painfully aware of his days' old stubble, his untamed hair, and Snape's pyjamas which were too large for him. At least his bare feet were hidden under the blanket pile.

"You're wearing clothes. That's sufficient," Snape countered. "Eat."

_Huh, was that a joke? Did he just tell a joke? Snape. Joking. Right, now what do I do?_

Snape's movements were graceful and sparse, as if he wasn't sitting at the foot of Harry's bed but in some grand dining room with ornate plates, expensive silverware gleaming under the light of a candelabra hanging from the tall ceilings. As a contrast to Snape's impeccable manners, the napkins under the plates were plain, oversized cloth. Their forks were mismatched. Harry's had a stubby brown handle and Snape's was black and long. To think of it, the plates had different designs too, as if someone had collected them from different places and hadn't quite bothered transfiguring them to match. _Of course, Transfiguration is magic and I can't be near charmed objects right now, so he reverted them all back to their original shapes._

Harry balanced a hot plate over his lap and leaned over it, squinting through his steamed up lenses. The contents of the plate smelled delicious! Harry slurped up his first serving and glanced at Snape over his fogged-up glasses, beaming. "S'good," he said. "Really good."

_Wuh-oh, he's looking. Quick, what else do I say now? Maybe I shouldn't say anything. It's best if I don't._

_Maybe if I wait it out, I'll stop feeling like an utter fool. Yeah right. Great big chance of that ever happening. Not!_

The way Snape balanced his fork was really fascinating. How had Harry not noticed before that Snape had such elegant hands? Not a move out of place. He seemed as precise as if he was in the laboratory, performing some important experiment. Snape was looking at him oddly: he wasn't glaring or arching his eyebrow, merely observing Harry with a calm expression on his face. _Well, that's awkward as hell._ Harry blinked and looked down on his lap, at the forgotten pasta.

"Do make an effort to chew; it'd be a shame to kill you with my cooking so soon after rescuing you." Snape's mouth remained a thin line as he scooped up the pasta with his fork. Harry snorted and gave him a chance to finish taking a few bites before speaking up.

"What's in it?"

"Family secret," Snape's cheek twitched.

In response, Harry hummed in appreciation, inhaling the pasta much faster than Snape did.

"Oh, that kind of secret? Don't tell me you poured all your liquor into the sauce!"

 _There, that had done it._ Just a faint movement in the corner of Snape's mouth, a wrinkle far more pronounced than before. _Yeah, it had been worth it._

"It's a cheese sauce," Snape answered. "Feel free to skip the meal, if you are so worried."

 _OK, so teasing him doesn't work out so well for me. Damn. Grumpy git can shut the conversation down in a single sentence, and here I thought we were having a nice chat._ He glanced up. Snape seemed perfectly content not to talk, which was annoying because that made Harry want to hear that deep, mocking tone all the more. It was comforting when it wasn't echoing through Hogwarts corridors, followed by points taken right and left.

"So," Harry said, around his third mouthful, trying to keep up the conversation once the room grew too quiet. "I've been thinking, and I counted, and turns out we have at least five things in common." _All right, more like three-and-a-half if you really stretch it, but fifty percent of a ten is a nice round number._

Snape's brow lifted quizzically. "Oh? Enlighten me, Mister Potter." The way he said Harry's name made Harry feel like a student again, someone with an assignment due today. Well, Harry wasn't a student anymore, and he refused to feel intimidated by someone who couldn't even take points from Gryffindor for every little infraction. _Wuh-oh,_ he thought to himself. _He's calling me out on this. What do I say? Quick. I can do this._

"If you want to know, well, all right," Harry stalled. "For one thing," he said, gesturing over Snape's high collar, "you've got that scar 'cause of Voldemort. And I've got my scar 'cause of Voldemort, so I figure that's one."

Snape tilted his head so most of the jagged edge of his scar was in the shadow of his hair. "Indeed," he said.

"Does it hurt?" Harry blurted out.

"Only sometimes," Snape said, no doubt eager to move onto the next topic. "Do go on."

_This is sort of working. I can't believe it worked! He's not staring as if he's ready to murder me yet. And he looks like he's actually listening to what I have to say. That's a win, right there._

"All right, well," Harry beamed over another mouthful of food and took his time, allowing the long pause to linger just for a while before continuing. Snape wasn't exactly pleased with the first thing Harry had said, so how would he react to this one? But Harry hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing.

_Here it goes... just like ripping the bandage off._

"We both miss my mother."

Something desperate and vulnerable flashed through Snape's eyes. Just for half-a-second. Harry was painfully aware of having said the wrong thing.

 _Oh, shit. Quick, what do I say next? What_ can _I say?_

"Um," he admitted because the best thing he knew that could mend things was telling the absolute truth. "I can't miss her, I didn't know her. You remember her though. I wish I did."

Snape sat very still, his posture was stiff. He let go of his fork. Harry wasn't scared of Snape's reaction, he realised, the stab of sudden emotion was a pang of sadness, deep and profound, the same sadness Snape must have known well in all these years of mourning alone, with so much time to remember. And to grieve.

"I guess what I mean is, thank you for your memories of her, and for everything else."

Snape didn't respond, not with words, but a brief nod followed. It was as much as Harry could expect from him. He was still here, he didn't leave the room.

 _What else,_ Harry asked himself. What did he and Snape share? He thought of Snape refereeing a match that one time and took a leap of faith. One could hardly referee something he hadn't tried at least once. "We both played Quidditch at Hogwarts. Am I right?"

Snape gave him a mildly surprised look.

"I was right! Were you any good?" Harry asked. _I can't believe it! Snape and Quidditch! Snape! Was he a Chaser? A Keeper? ... A Seeker? I can't picture him chasing after the Quaffle or the Snitch. So maybe a Keeper, or a Beater. Bet he was a sore loser though, I can just imagine the stares. He would really play to win, but I can do that too._ "Bet you scored a few times at least. That feeling of the crowd below cheering, there's nothing like it."

Snape's mouth spread into a defiant smirk. "Oh, I could think of a few things other than brain-dead nitwits waving their banners. Like flying itself."

Apparently, Quidditch was a safe subject, even with Snape. _Go Quidditch,_ Harry cheered inwardly as he beamed. "Fair enough, any kind of flying is wicked."

"It's... memorable."

"I'll race you," Harry announced, "When all of this is over and I can fly again. Just wait 'til I get a hold of my broom."

"You need a broom?" Snape's mouth twisted. "Amateur."

Oh, right, he had to rub it in. _All the great gloomy bat likely needs is to flap his cloak in the full moonlight._ But in his chest, Harry's heart took a hopeful leap. _Flying! Who would have thought?_

"It's a deal."

Snape's eyes held an open challenge and Harry stared right back, refusing to look away. Curiosity was a powerful thing. And picturing Snape, soaring freely in the air, as easily as he strode down the corridors with that billowing cloak of his, was more than mere curiosity. Snape, staring Harry down like a raptor in search of a challenging prey. Was it just Harry, or was the room really getting hot: filling with an odd sort of crackling energy? It was a different sort of magic.

Finally, Snape looked down, breaking their eye contact.

"Um, so, another one, huh?" Harry said, thinking of a skinny, malnourished boy with a desperate stare; not the confident, complicated man dining in front of him. "I didn't have an easy time of it, growing up. You can say the same."

Snape's mouth thinned. Whatever joy had been displayed in his stare now cooled rapidly.

"We made it though, look at us!"

That defiant eyebrow arched up. "'Us', Potter?" Snape huffed, just as his hand picked up the fork again, and that was surely a sign that Harry was allowed to joke in his presence.

"Yeah. Us, as in having a civilised meal, like two grown wizards." Harry chanced a glance at the table and reached out for his glass of wine, taking a cautious sip. It was rather good, with enough sweetness and earthy taste to wash down the cheese sauce.

He toasted in Snape's direction and beamed. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon.

"Don't expect it every day," Snape hmphed. "This is not something I care to repeat often."

"That's what makes it good!" Harry argued. "It's special. Like Christmas. I mean... Not like a yay presents sort of thing, just something that happens once a year, and um, ok, I'll stop talking now."

"Too late." There was a spark of amusement in the corner of Snape's eye. "Considering I'm feeding you on this apparently 'special' evening, do continue, Potter. What is the final thing we have in common? I'm beginning to enjoy this exercise in futility."

"Hmph. Not pointless if I caught you smirking," Harry grumbled playfully. "But anyway, I reckon," he rubbed the back of his neck and continued, fast, "the last one is, well, if we ever get our Patronuses in the same room together, we can expect a small herd of fawns afterwards... Don't tell me you haven't thought of it!"

There was a snort emerging from Snape, and for a second Harry didn't believe he had heard right. "I'm not willing to test that theory," Snape proclaimed. "Knowing your attention span, and commitment to following through with your responsibilities, I would end up as the sole caretaker of the entire herd."

"Hey," Harry protested. "You don't know that."

"Hmm?" Snape arched his brow again.

"I'm not about to rush off and leave you with the sprogs. That's just wrong!"

Snape regarded him with the look that signalled utmost patience toward nitwits of all sorts. "You do know a Patronus is just a manifestation of a charm: nothing more, nothing less."

Harry rolled his eyes. He wasn't completely ignorant. It's the principle of the thing that mattered. "Even imaginary, they ought to be raised right. Besides, I can commit when it's something as important as that." As Harry declared it, he thought mournfully of the last dried and wrinkled potted twig on his windowsill which had to be rescued by Neville from certain death.

It felt odd and freeing at once: bantering with Snape and not worrying about points being taken, or insults thrown, at least not the stinging ones.

"Your years at Hogwarts demonstrate that you'd make a terrible caretaker," Snape drawled. "And these days, your odds of _not_ dying on your job aren't looking too good."

That sobered Harry up more than a gulp of cold water from the second glass near his plate.

"... despite the best efforts of everyone around you."

"Talk to me in ten years," Harry answered him with a daring stare. "I'll show you dying. Who knows, by then I may even be so good at surviving curses, they'll make me the Head of the Aurors just for that."

Ever a member of his House, Snape must've appreciated ambition as much as the next Slytherin. The corners of his mouth deepened.

"You could be Minister by then, Potter, should you put your mind to it. And yet you insist on setting such appalling goals for yourself. Where is your sense of adventure?"

"Ha!" Harry stretched back on his chair. "Not dying's good enough, don't you think?"

"Not dying _is_ enough," Snape agreed with a nod. "Let me know how that works out for you in a decade."

"It's not like I would be able to do anything about it otherwise," Harry shrugged. "So yeah, deal. Might as well. But only if you come flying with me."

It was calm and surreal, sitting there with Snape, glasses raised, drinking wine and finishing the last of the food on their plates. Harry's belly was warm and full and his mind sluggish and calm, with Snape's company relaxing for once instead of stressful. Harry felt rather accomplished and proud of himself.

_Five things in common with Snape, who would have thought I'd come up with that many._

There were so many ways Snape wasn't like Harry at all. He was eloquent, and vicious with his insults, and occasionally funny. His nose was a spectacle on its own and his glare was as intense as staring into the open flame. He hid behind his hair and his acidic barbs, and that spidery touch was oh-so-careful over Harry's chest. His touch was also warm, warmer than Harry ever expected.

*

It was much later when Harry was alone that he had a chance to reflect on what was said, rather than who said it.

 _Right,_ Harry thought. _Like Snape was telling me, not dying is enough. What do I want to be in ten years? Alive. Alive would be nice._

_And for that, I need this blasted trinket out of my chest._

As if to remind Harry that it was paying attention, the chilling invasion in his chest twisted and pulsed.

_Yeah, yeah, that's all you can do._

It was late, but Harry couldn't sleep. Random thoughts ran through his head, wild as the seaside breeze. Unpredictable as the storms. _What does it take to get the cursed thing out of me?_ And also: _wonder if Snape couldn't get it out 'cause he's not meant to? What if it's all up to me?_ What if the answer was staring Harry right in the face, deceptively simple all along? And what if that meant that no matter how much time Snape spent trying to help, it wouldn't have worked? Couldn't work. "Cause it wasn't up to Snape to save Harry, no matter how good he was at what he did, at curse-breaking, and no matter how much he wanted to help. That made sense, right? And well, Harry wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't try out that theory at least once.

_I already know how much it hurts if things go wrong, he told himself. It's bearable, and I can do this. I need to do this._

And so, Harry waited a good hour until the house quieted down and slid from his bed onto the floor, unwilling to make a mess of the sheets this time, should his wound decide to gush blood.

He twisted and turned, pulling at his bandages until they unravelled. "Er, hello there." He whispered, talking to the cursed trinket as one would talk to a stubborn colt about to bolt away. "Chest monster, is it? As good a name as any for you. I can call you that from now on, I guess. So um, I'll try to touch you now, nothing weird, I swear. I want to make sure you're still here and it's dark. It's not like I can see, so..."

He lifted one hand, monitoring for any changes in sensation in his chest, warmth, movement, vibration, but it all stayed still. It all stayed the same. The slight heat of a low fever. The mild pang of spikes embedded in his chest, almost reaching the bone.

It's as if the trinket was dormant too, like a live critter sleeping throughout the night. "Easy," Harry told it. "I will reach out now, so if you feel anything, it's just my hand." Cautious, he slid his hand across his body, along the ribs and toward the open wound crusted over with curse residue.

It felt unusual, as if he had developed scales. As if thin roots had sprouted inside his flesh instead of veins, perforating it, holding it together and preventing him from breathing deeply with that thin net they formed. His breath was much more frequent, shallow and unsteady.

"That's it. This is all I want. Just want to check on you. Are you still a star?"

With the utmost care, he traced the shape of the medal with his index finger. It shifted under his touch, sending a shiver through him, but Harry felt hopeful at that. It was much further than he'd ever gotten with it.

"You still are, aren't you? Even if you don't shine anymore. Don't you want to shine again, one day? I've polished you before, you know. Let me try something quick, easy now, 'm not gonna harm you, yeah, just stay like this, nice and quiet and... " he held his left hand over the thing and had hoped that the warmth of it would fool the magic as he quickly pressed one nail under a sharp edge and held a breath.

But before he could try nudging it up, the thing constricted, squeezing flesh and gushing warm blood, and pressing in further, burrowing deeper, slipping away from his hold, beneath the curse-swollen flesh. _I'm such an idiot,_ he thought. _I should have acted sooner. Or I shouldn't've tried at all. Oh no. This is bad, really bad. Hurts. Stop it!_ The pain hit, with a delay of a few breaths, much stronger than before, sending him writhing. He screamed, as he hit his head against the side of the bed and fell backwards, the ache in his head echoing the one in his chest. He hoped Snape was still awake.

 _Please be awake,_ he thought, groaning and trying to inhale against the dull ache, feeling as if his entire chest was being pried apart from the inside. Wheezing. Struggling to breathe.

"What's wrong?" A cry from the doorway, a flash of a lit lamp, then a strong grip lifted him up, slippery with Harry's own blood. "You fool!" Snape shouted, holding his hand against Harry's chest and pressing down, as if trying to staunch not only the blood flow but the curse as well.

Snape yanked him back against a solid, flat chest. Strong arms wrapped around him.

"Breathe," Snape said. "Keep breathing, Harry." He sounded so focused, so full of concern.

It sounded so odd: something about that tone, about those words. That last word in particular.

_He called me Harry. That's... impossible._

That wasn't something Harry had heard from another for days, now that he was away from Hermione and Ron, only seeing them on a rare weekday. _Snape never calls me Harry._ It startled a breath out of him and Harry forced himself to keep taking shallow breaths, tuning out the pain, the tremendous ache in his chest.

 _He's got me,_ he thought instead. _Snape has me. He won't let anything happen. I'll be all right. It'll all be all right._

*

Harry woke up on the floor. He must've been weak with blood loss because the hours all blurred together. Through the window, he could see the sky had brightened with the dawn.

How long had they stayed like this, on the floor? All night? It must've been. He felt those strong arms wrapped around him, not letting go.

"Snape?"

"What is it?" Spidery fingers traced over him, feeling every rib. "Are you hurting?"

Harry stirred, more energetic than before. "Bed?"

"One moment."

Snape lifted him up and helped him as Harry reclined against the cool sheets, then Snape pulled the heavy blanket over him.

"Wait, blood," Harry said in protest. Not because he was still bleeding. That had stopped throughout the night. But because he was still covered with it, all sticky and crusting.

"It'll clean off."

"Oh. All right."

"Rest, Potter."

A warm hand rested over his chest, right over the wound. It seemed to not disturb the curse at all; maybe because it was Snape's left hand, the one with the Dark Mark covering the forearm.

"Uh-huh."

He would not tell Snape that the pinching weight on his chest was getting heavier and heavier by the hour. What was the point of worrying anyone but himself? What was the point of worrying Snape? Not when he hadn't been able to help so far. Was it foolish of Harry to think either of them could handle what was coming?

He was thankful Snape had helped him this far. He had needed all the help he could get.

"Sixth thing," he murmured, although he was sweaty and shivering; it seemed important.

"What?"

"In common. Us." His lips stretched in a smile. "Stubborn..."

A huff of laughter warmed the bare skin of his shoulder, the brief movement of the man watching over him shifting Harry's fringe. "You don't say."

*

Later, Snape drew a warm sponge over Harry's chest, slowly, patiently, cleaning up the bloody mess by hand. Then he rinsed it out in the bowl of water by the bedside.

It was an odd feeling. Surreal, to be cared for by someone who seemed to be the opposite of a caretaker. Incredible, discovering that Snape was nothing like Harry had expected him to be in such a role. He was... Meticulous, patient, thorough. Under such scrutiny, Harry felt like a well-seasoned cauldron with polished sides.

Well, at least some parts of him were as hard as seasoned iron.

 _It's normal, all perfectly natural,_ Harry told himself, gathering the sheets over his lap and trying not to move under Snape's patient hand. _Nothing weird to see here. It's just been a while, that's all. It's not like I can take my time and take care of myself with Snape always looming about. The last thing I need is him walking in on me doing... well, that._

But it was more than that, wasn't it? Snape's touch wasn't just arousing; it was welcome. Needed, even. It's what triggered a spasm of heat through Harry's belly. Those slow, patient circles. The touch wasn't even direct, yet it sent tingles up Harry's spine.

It had been a long time since someone had made Harry the centre of their attention, had placed him under careful scrutiny. It felt as if Harry was wanted here. Was someone important, someone special.

The sponge in Snape's hand had done its best to stay above the belt, never dipping below what was appropriate. And Harry hated Snape for it. He wanted an excuse, a straying hand, to give him a reason to let out a gasp and thrust against that firm touch. To grab Snape's hand and press it down, showing Snape precisely what that slow, patient, teasing thrill was doing to him.

Snape's hand stilled.

_No. Nononono!_

"I trust you can take care of the rest," Snape said, even and low.

Harry sighed.

"I'll get you a fresh bowl."

That wonderful hand withdrew, stilling just for a second over Harry's solar plexus, a speck of blood left right below Harry's belly button. Untouched.

 _Argh! Life wasn't fair, not even one bit._ Harry could've done without recent developments of his body reacting to the nosy git as if he was dosed with a lust potion. Last he checked, Severus Snape was not spelled Sexy Sonofabitch. Far from it. And still, there was something about the way he held himself around Harry, business-like, aloof, that was an outright taunt and a dare, and just made Harry want to break past that distanced demeanour.

*

The following afternoon, as Harry stared out of the window into the foggy seascape at the disappearing speck of a sole fisherman's boat, he finally pinpointed the house's location. It had been such a simple puzzle too, he laughed at not having figured it out sooner. This had to be it.

That tall, craggy cliff right past the village which appeared uninhabited to the onlooker's eye. It was an odd cliff if Harry thought about it. In fact, he had noticed the cliff many times, had known there was one, ever-present somewhere in the corner of his vision, but had never thought of it beyond ' _tall, craggy, and uninhabited, wonder what's on the very top... Hm, the weather sure is nice this time of year, and what's over here? A rock?_ ' In fact, whenever Harry had got the urge to hike near it, to explore the area, he always remembered more important things he had to do that day.

 _Ah-ha,_ Harry thought, relieved to be so close to the place where he was meant to be, what must've been just a short brisk walk to the edge of the village and to the welcoming guest house on the corner, where the Church Lane and the Cliff Road almost met.

Right where all his things were stashed away in one room on the top floor; where his unfinished report to Robards sat on the bedside table.

With the current state of his body, he doubted he could summon enough magical energy for a Patronus without passing out. In fact, sending an alarmed missive back to Robards would put Snape at risk of being discovered. The clock was ticking for his next check-in report with the office. A week, at most. _Whatever needs to be done to get this thing out of me, it needs to be done soon. Or else, in the best case scenario, they'll come searching for me and won't find a thing, and then this place will be swarming with the department's finest Aurors._ Snape's mum or Snape himself wouldn't stand a chance with all the tools at their disposal. The Aurors would figure it out, Secret Keeper or not.

_We need to do something, and quick!_

It was incredibly easy to slide into that mindset. ' _We.' Snape and I._ They had been working together, hadn't they, for some time now. They had a common goal now. Something shared and urgent. Something unique.

It was during a particularly quiet moment as the sea breeze ruffled his fringe and a ray of the sun peeked through the rolling clouds, that Harry had a crazy realisation.

_What if I've been thinking about it all wrong?_

_What if I'm not the one meant to lift the spell and Snape isn't meant to do this either? Neither of us can do this alone._

_We have to try together. The sooner, the better._

_That's it. It has to be. We have to do it before we run out of time._

_Before_ I _run out of time._

*

At dinner, Harry refused to be distracted by the way Snape's thin lips wrapped, slowly and delicately, around each mouthful.

"So," Harry said over their plates, "I've been thinking. We should try this again. Together."

Snape's eyebrow lifted, and he set aside his fork with a brief cough. It's as if he had been caught off-guard by something. _Why? Was it something Harry had said?_ "Another dinner, Potter?" Snape inquired at last. "Are you that hungry for my cooking?"

"No!" Harry protested. "It's not that! I mean yes, the fish is fine."  
  


"Are you certain? You look as if you've been fighting it swimming upstream since the first bite. I assure you, it's not that fresh."

"Ha! No. I mean, I want to try -" he motioned with his eyes at the middle of his chest, in case the curse was more adept than he thought and could listen in on conversations, "- _this_ thing again. Tonight?"

Snape's stare turned dead serious, losing that amused glow. "Some attempts are best left for the daytime. Tomorrow. Sunlight helps. If it can wait that long."

"It can." Harry nodded, thinking how different Snape's voice sounded when it wasn't a low whisper against Harry's ear.

They hadn't talked about that night Snape had spent watching over Harry. With his arm across Harry's chest, his body a warm, solid support; Harry pressed back against him in the dark, with his eyes closed.

The night had been so soothing, so perfect, it featured in Harry's daydreams at the most distracting of times.

Things were much simpler then, at night, when he didn't have to face the truth, didn't have to see it for what it was. When he didn't have to think of it all that much.

Like how comfortable it had been to sink back against the silent support, and press the back of his head against the sharp angle of Snape's chin; feel the easy weight of a bony arm between his elbow and side. Snape's spidery fingers had spread flat, his palm pressing in the middle of Harry's chest. Right over his heart.

It was more intimate than anything Harry had done with another so far. And it had to be with Severus Sodding Snape. Snape, who was alive, despite all odds. Snape, who kept on saving Harry even though he didn't have to, not anymore.

Snape, who was a miserable, vindictive sod, stalking the dungeons for the fun of it and docking points right and left from every student he despised. Snape, who was a Marked Death Eater, and a wanted murderer to boot. Snape, who was Dumbledore's man through and through, despite what it had cost him. Snape, who bloody well deserved that Order of Merlin, but wouldn't ever be given one. 'Cause no one in the Ministry handed out medals to former Death Eaters. And Snape was just another Death Eater to them. A criminal who deserved to rot in Azkaban. Which seemed so damn unfair, it hurt.

_Someone had made Harry's body into a container for a dark artefact, abandoning him to die near Snape's mother's home, the hex making a mockery of a precious medal for the sake of what, getting even? Making a point? In a world where such deeds went unpunished, it made all sorts of sense to bend the rules for Snape. To make the Order of Merlin shine again. Honouring Snape's sacrifices and honouring his life._

_No one ever had done that, had they? Not even Dumbledore._

_Well then, someone ought to. I can't fix the world, but maybe I can fix this._

"Um, Snape?" Harry lifted his head. "If something happens tomorrow... I mean, if something goes wrong..." Snape was quiet, his brows pressed together, allowing Harry to speak. Harry squared his shoulders and continued. "I want you to take my Order of Merlin, for yourself. To keep it."

Snape's stare was dark and questioning. Mesmerising. His hair hung long and sleek, with a slight curl around his jawline.

"I know it's not much of a gift now - yeah, here, have a cursed trinket - but if anyone can rid it of the Dark Magic, it's you. And I want you to hold on to it. You don't have to wear it, or anything. Or even show it to anyone. I don't want it to keep doing what it does," Harry looked down at his own bandaged chest, "Keep burrowing into people, keep trying to maim or to kill. It deserves better and so do you, after..."

"Whatever you're trying, it won't work," Snape snapped, rising to his full height. In the resulting silence a fork clattered to the ground. Harry's. Snape's tone was terse, made Harry blink twice and frown, but Snape's scrutinising stare kept him in place. "You've already written yourself off as a dead man. I refuse to work with someone who is planning his own funeral. You ought to show more faith in yourself. Are you a Gryffindor or not?"

Harry gulped. Snape seemed angry. All because Harry had said the wrong thing. All because... When it came down it, perhaps Snape cared more whether Harry lived or died than Harry himself. When one put it like that, Harry could see how his words had infuriated Snape.

"I'm not dying tomorrow." Harry lifted his chin resolutely. "I don't want to die." Perhaps they were both far too stubborn for their own good, but that stubbornness could be channelled to a worthwhile cause.

Snape strode forward and stood in front of Harry, as imposing as he had been when Harry was eleven. As full of concern as he had never appeared to be during Harry's school years. "Then do better," he said. "Winning against impossible odds is what you _do_."

Harry faced that furious stare and found himself with a misplaced urge to push back the stubborn strands of hair falling over Snape's face. He didn't know where that urge came from, but his hands itched for it. "You're wrong," he said. "Winning is what _we_ did. Together. You and I, and everyone else. _We_ 've won the war. And damned if I let a criminal spoil what we've sacrificed years to accomplish over some stupid curse. That's why we have to make it right. Tomorrow."

Snape's stare softened. His hand lifted, halfway, to Harry's jaw, as if he wanted to tilt it upwards, as if he wanted to touch Harry for some reason.

"That's the spirit," he murmured and then the corner of his mouth twisted just so. "Perhaps even worthy of that medal."

"Yeah," Harry breathed. "Perhaps."

_Now, when will you admit the same?_

*

The next day after breakfast, Harry stood in the middle of a sunlit spot, watching the dust specks swirl in the rays of the morning sun. The wooden floorboards were warm under his curling toes.

Snape stood in front of him.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," Harry smiled at him. _Ready as I'll ever be._

Snape's fingers brushed over Harry's as they unwrapped the bandages. The thin strips fell down on the floor, festive as ribbons, one settling over Snape's black boot.

Harry held his breath and counted, _one, two..._ settling on six.

_Six things in common with Snape._

_Seven,_ he thought _. Both of us might even get through today alive. Eight, we're both avoiding talking about that night we spent together in my room._

"So, um, what do you need?"

"Something to make this thing assume I'm a part of you." Snape mouth thinned, his eyes looked dark, determined.

"Legilimency," Harry said, sudden and as sure as he could ever be. It seemed absurd to ask, considering the memory of Snape's lessons in sixth year, but oh, so right. "It's magic, but stealthy, maybe even stealthy enough to not set off any alarms. And it's only right that to fool it, you need to have my thoughts in your head."

Snape nodded.

Harry now fully understood the need for a Pensieve before sharing a mind with someone. 'Cause right now, he desperately wanted to hide certain thoughts to keep Snape from seeing them, but he couldn't do so. Which meant... The only other solution: warning Snape before he stumbled over something in Harry's thoughts, something so off-putting that he would speak with Harry again.

"Um, before we begin, you ought to know s-something I've... been thinking. About you. Right, it's really embarrassing, and probably isn't worth dwelling on all that much. Like that night, when you kept watch over me, I just, um, it's sort of related to that but not really. I guess, what I'm trying to say is, I'm queer. And I, well, if you don't care for that sort of thing, don't look too close. But if you do look, I have to warn you, in case you see something you don't want to see... I don't understand it myself. I don't know what to make it of it, that's all I have to say. I still don't. I can't help it, they're _thoughts_!"

"Potter. _Harry._ " His name said aloud was the last thing Harry had expected. "I _know_. It's going to be all right." The last part sounded like Snape was reassuring himself more than anyone else.

And then Snape did something unexpected. He lifted his hand and pushed aside Harry's fringe, his thumb catching Harry's sweaty brow and smoothing it out. His knuckles brushed against Harry's chest where the seeping wound bled. And then, as if making a desperate, final call, he leaned forward, pressing his cheek against Harry's forehead. His breath was warm and humid against Harry's scar.

_Oh. This isn't part of a ritual, is it?_

Harry looked up at that thin mouth and found it not so forbidding. This sensation of closeness to Snape was so strange and gentle and so new. He raised his hands to Snape's chest and rested them over the black fabric.

A thin strip of silk unravelled, tucked into Snape's breast pocket. It seemed familiar. Harry ran a questioning hand over it. "Your tears," Snape murmured. "I kept them."

"Oh?" Harry frowned, looking into those dark eyes and feeling he could drown in them.

"I have a theory. In the absence of conventional magic, whoever helps you through this has to be someone who cares deeply, about keeping you safe, and demonstrates it."

"You mean..." Harry questioned.

"I need to try this, and it may not be enough, but I have to try."

Shock sent shivers through Harry. Snape cared. About him. Cared enough to try to save him, maybe even enough to succeed.

"Wait," Harry breathed. "Just wait. A moment." Determined to follow through with what he was about to do next. Nervous enough to make his knees shake. Harry's blood and sweat were over Snape's hands, his tears in Snape's pocket. "You only have three parts of me," Harry said, daring himself to surrender more to this contradiction of a man who wanted him safe and well, had fought to keep him safe and well, for as long as Harry had known him. "Have this too."

And then, facing that dark and questioning stare, Harry dove in, pressing his lips against Snape's with the immediacy of someone lunging off a cliff. And soar he did as Snape's arms wrapped around him and held him up. As his mouth parted under Harry's.

Harry, emboldened by Snape's reaction, pressed his luck, feeling Snape's hard chest under his fingers; flexing them against the black scratchy fabric and tilting his head, losing himself in the kiss. Snape's response, soft and slow, was of unmistakable agreement and his mouth was right there, warm and gentle, with his distinct taste and texture. His touch felt demanding against Harry's back, pulling him close.

 _This is Severus Snape, right here,_ Harry thought. _This is the real him, not just the billowing robes, or the sarcastic scribbles of red ink, but this._ Warm mouth, bony grip, and Harry's tears preserved in his pocket. _And I'm holding him close. I have him, all of him, right now, in my arms._

It was such a surreal, otherworldly thing to experience. It was only right to hold on.

"Oh." Harry breathed out.

Snape pulled back. So unsure he looked that Harry had to say something, to convey what he felt as he followed, stepping back into Snape's hold. "I'm in good hands."

A rueful smirk was his answer. "We'll see if that's enough."

"I trust you." _I trust him with my life._ That wasn't the thought that surprised Harry. The next one did: _I want to live._

"Very well. We'll try this your way. One," Snape said, counting down, just like during their Occlumency lessons. "Two..."

Harry stared, unblinking, focusing on Snape's dark ones, and felt he could fall into that stare, and then, like a complete fool, he did, as he surrendered his mind and thoughts to another. To Snape.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe through it. This_ will _pass._

 _We can do this._ Harry closed his hand around Snape's bare wrist, directing his hand over his wound.

  
Harry did not think of the curse spreading over his body. Instead, he thought of a shining medal pinned on his chest by the Minister of Magic, of the crowd holding its breath and then exploding with applause. But the applause came later. First was that moment of silence as the green ribbon settled against him and the easy weight of a multi-point golden star rested on his chest. There were only a handful of these in the entire Wizarding world. Being awarded one was an honour. He could have been overjoyed at reaching this moment, he could've relished in the attention, in the well-deserved accolades. But all he thought was: _This shouldn't be mine to keep. It's meant for another._

Snape's stare was calm as he faced Harry, a composed expression of a reader starting a new book. Without a doubt, he could read Harry's every thought, because Harry felt someone else's presence inside, a gentle touch to the way his thoughts flowed, causing minor ripples here and there.

 _Take it._ Harry thought to Snape. _It's a part of me now and_ _it's yours to keep._

And then, he pressed Snape's hand to his chest and felt Snape's fingers curl around the stubborn metal. It shook once and then stayed still, allowing Snape to uproot it, to yank it from Harry's chest and pull it free at last.

With a squelch, it released Harry, and he felt a throb of agony as it did, as if it had been keeping him numb all along. Keeping him oblivious as it fed on him and burrowed in deeper.

Snape tossed the blackened star away from Harry in the far corner, where it clattered on the wooden floorboards harmless as rusty gear and sounding just as dull and hollow. __  
  


Harry took in a panicked breath, and then Snape's hand pressed against him hard, to stem the flow of blood, keep the pain at bay. All around them was a silvery shimmer of an anti-magic ward dispelled, a bright and airy presence of its remains in the air. It even smelled like a fresh summery creek and left a cheerful ringing in Harry's ears.

"Vulnera Sanentur," Snape chanted, almost song-like, and then he repeated it three times, his other arm curling around Harry's shoulders. The throbbing in Harry's chest subsided to a series of dull pangs, like a heartbeat.

 _Right, he can do magic around me now,_ Harry thought. _And I can do magic again! I'm still alive. Snape's alive. Brilliant!_

Everything was brilliant; Harry felt lighter than air and drunk on it. He took another deep breath and marvelled at the way air tasted on his tongue, sweet and sunlit and thirst-quenching. He slid his hands over Snape's angular frame, steadying himself by holding onto those narrow shoulders, and steered them toward the bed.

"Wanna kiss you again," he breathed. "May I?"

With a hollow sensation in his mind, he felt Snape let go of his thoughts, but Snape's touch remained solid and supportive.

"Not a wise idea, Harry," Snape murmured. Low and gentle. As if dashing Harry's hopes required the utmost care in the world.

"Never was," Harry reached up, and drunk on his own daring, slid his fingers across Snape's pale cheek. He refused to believe this, whatever had grown between them, had no future.

"But I want to anyway." He pulled Snape, no Severus, down to him. And Severus smelled wonderful, like that elusive woody scent of Amortentia that was so hard to detect, harder to grasp, but always there. As familiar and endless as the sea.

"Ahem," someone in the doorway let out a bark of a crow-caw laughter. "Severus, now, if you're quite done molesting the underdressed youth which you've let into my home..."

With a quick move, Severus spun, shielding Harry, his bony form with ruffled cloak blocking Harry from view.

"Ever heard of KNOCKING, Ma?"

Harry peered over Severus' shoulder. The grey-haired witch in the doorway flashed a beaky grin over an armful of groceries: celery stalks stretching tall and bushy under her chin. Her stare was sharp and beady-black. "Oh, go on, boys. I'm certain Severus hadn't planned on saying or doing anything he wouldn't repeat in front of his dear old mum, isn't that right... sweetums?" Her mouth curled into a smirk which looked both mocking and smug.

Severus was the picture of calm and, if it wasn't for the subtle twitch of his fingers, the tenseness in his forearm, no one would have noticed just how panicked he must've been.

"Er," Harry tried to calm his wildly beating heart and clutched Severus' shoulder, for stability and emotional support. When he had been with Ginny, the thought of facing Mrs Weasley in a similar situation at the Burrow had left his knees shaking. They were shaking now, too. He was fortunate that Severus' hands were around him or he would've tumbled.

"And this vigorous urchin in your death grip couldn't be anyone other than Harry Potter," said the woman who couldn't be more un-like Mrs Weasley if she tried. Broomstick-thin and sour-faced, she raised her pointy chin and regarded Harry with a squint, gathering her fuzzy shrug around herself like a great vulture fluffing up her feathers on the tallest roadside branch. Harry couldn't help but feel like a poor desiccated mouse about to become a crunchy snack. "Call me Mrs Prince, darling boy."

The witch cast him a shrewd stare, lingering on his chest, where the Order of Merlin no longer lived. Then she lowered her eyes to the corner where the charcoal-black trinket had fallen, now as harmless as a stray cog. "I trust you'll clean up after yourself before you leave. It's rude to leave cursed artefacts where these old feet can trip over them." She paused and tsked, sidestepping her son's efforts and measuring Harry with the full brunt of her fiery stare from head to toe. "Mind, I can see how someone as young and impressionable as yourself would forget his manners: snogging one's rescuers tends to distract."

"Ahem," Severus cleared his throat. "No one is leaving this house today, and especially not him."

Eileen's brow arched sharply as she tossed her greying mane back, revealing a strong, angular jawline. "Of course not, Severus. We're not monsters. Not without a proper meal to send him off. I'll take care of that for you, you have enough on your mind. Shoo." Her brows were still arched but her gaze lowered, punctuating exactly what she meant, and Harry only hoped she meant the disarray of Severus' robes.

By the way Severus' form stiffened and how he drew his robes around himself, Harry suspected not. He slid his hand over Severus' arm in support and was surprised to feel the answering touch.

"Ah, and what a charming pair you two make. Why, the sweetness might rot my remaining teeth right off. Shall I plan a Spring wedding?"

"Ma..."

"And to think of it, I always wanted a second son. Well, more like a grandson, considering your tender age. Severus, aren't you concerned you won't be able to keep up once your back goes out?"

Severus' hand covered Harry's, his fingers curled around Harry's palm and their stares crossed, determined and bright. Green eyes and black, meeting.

"I am sorry for my mother's behaviour. You're the first paramour of mine she's met. And she doesn't know how to react."

"Severus, you know full well -"

Severus interrupted, quickly overriding whatever Eileen may have said next. "She taunts to cover up that she's nervous. It's best to ignore her."

 _Paramour. Who even says that?_ Harry's mouth curled into an oh. Eileen's eye twitched. She looked as though she had swallowed an entire broomstick coated in salt and lime juice.

"Well," Eileen squared her shoulders, still somewhat smug. "Now, if you'll excuse me, boys. Dinner won't cook itself. Severus, be a dear and unpeel yourself from our guest; I will need you to cut the onions for the stew."

Severus' answering glare could have set the wallpaper on fire.

*

Harry sat at the centre of the bed and poked at the puffy round scar in the middle of his chest. The skin glowed pink, and was hairless, unlike the surrounding areas. It itched and was sensitive around the edges.

He waited to put on his Auror uniform over it and tapped the bare skin before buttoning up the robes. It felt like the stretched side of a drum, waiting to be struck.

Severus stood at the opposite corner of the room, holding the charcoal-black cog-like trinket and charming it into a protective bubble. A strand of hair escaped, coiling over his pale face, not breaking any of the concentration. Harry watched it, itching to push it back.

In the kitchen, he heard the banging of pots and pans. Must've been Eileen cooking up a storm.

"Don't look so excited," Severus cautioned him. "My mother's cooking is abhorrent. Though I have complete faith that you'll suffer through it admirably. Like a true Gryffindor."

Harry beamed at him. "You called me your paramour," he said. "Isn't it, well, odd, considering?"

Snape's face became a mask. "It was presumptuous. My apologies."

There were moments when Snape tilted his head just so, and the shadow fell over his face as the black curtains of hair shielded most of his expression from sight, but the stare remained, stubborn, burning. Harry was reminded then of the teenage boy glimpsed in the memories and he loved that part of Severus as much as the others.

"No! I mean, if you're using such big words and I've already met your mother," Harry kept on grinning because this was too good not to say. "The least you can do is call me by my name, I don't mind."

"Time to eat, boys," Eileen called out, interrupting their shared moment.

The stew was all garlic and pepper, not that Harry minded. Severus had transfigured the small table in the bedroom and they all gathered there, carrying their bowls and the matching carved wooden spoons Eileen had transfigured from a handful of dried flower stems sticking out of a jar in the windowsill.

"That's unsanitary," Severus sighed, casting a Cleaning charm over them.

Eileen rolled her eyes and dipped her spoon into the thick stew. "Best not tell him I haven't peeled the potatoes," she whispered in Harry's direction. "Such a picky eater." She settled in her chair and declared, louder, "So, Harry, do tell us what bout of insanity prompted such an upstanding young man to sign his life away for the Ministry's paper pushers to manage and mangle?"

"Ma!"

"What, Severus? I'm just saying, it couldn't possibly have been a sound decision. Firewhisky was likely involved, but most young men escape that phase of experimentation with an unfortunate tattoo." She gave Severus a pointed look. "My money is on the Imperius Curse."

Harry chewed and swallowed a mouthful of hot stew and refused to be rattled by Eileen's teasing. "I don't know exactly why, Mrs Prince," he said plainly. "I suppose it was your son's actions, among many others."

Harry thought of the silvery doe in the darkness and smiled. "He showed me that one can always dedicate a life to fighting on the side of good, and make a difference. I wanted to make a difference myself. To build the world he'd be proud of."

"What Potter is trying to say..."

Harry summoned up his courage and lifted his hand just to cover Severus' sallow palm with his fingers. Severus' fingers twitched in surprise, but then remained still. "Do call me Harry," Harry said, soft but sure. "I insist."

Eileen's gaze flicked back and forth between her son and Harry and her mouth spread in a smirk. "How splendid," she drawled. "Severus, he is making the dessert seem bland in comparison and I've used up all your syrup on the treacle tart."

Severus allowed his hair to fall down the sides of his face, his stare burning. Stubborn but permissive at once.

Harry's mouth watered, but it wasn't the promise of dessert that made it so.

*

"Harry," Severus said much later, once they were alone. He whispered it against Harry's hand as Harry reached out for him, in a gentle, vulnerable way that twisted a knot over Harry's heart.

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_kiss.jpg)

It was later in the evening and the sea waves hissed in the darkness beyond the window. The last of the luminous sunset bloomed orange and burned down to pink-and-purple long ago. The coals in the fireplace in the corner of the room were brighter than the horizon, crackling merrily and spitting red sparks.

"Do you like it here? I like it a lot."

"I didn't have much choice in the matter, but it's a safe place."

Harry grinned, not taking his eyes off Severus. "With a wonderful view to catch your eye at the right moment."

It was fascinating, the range of expressions just there underneath the neutral mask that Severus kept control over. _Got you,_ Harry thought, _I must do this more often. Compliment him. Especially if he reacts like that._

They were both reclining on Harry's bed, Severus' cloak spread over the blanket, all-consuming, like the night sky, but with none of the stars twinkling within. Harry pushed the stubborn strand of Severus' hair back behind his ear, and the earlobe was soft to the touch and warm, the curve of it leading down to that sharp angle of Severus' jaw. There was the warmth of the fiery tones from the fireplace in Severus' stare and the firelight was kind to his features.

"It caught my eye," Harry admitted, still not taking his eyes off Severus.

"Oh?" Severus met his stare and didn't look away.

Lust coiled hot and heavy in Harry's belly at the proximity of that sallow, long hand on the sheets, just a finger width away from Harry's thigh. He looked, unable to take his eyes away from the sight of Severus' thin mouth parting with a glimpse of teeth over the lower lip, and he wanted that mouth closer, remembering how good it felt whispering in Harry's ear, remembering how soft those lips felt to Harry's touch, in the most stunning moment of them kissing.

Severus' skin smelled of broomstick wood, cedar-strong and sweet, and Harry had given up questioning his recent reactions around Severus; it was about as senseless as questioning why Amortentia always smelled the way it did or the why the sea surged at the cliffs below, as inevitable as breathing.

How did someone get over the war? _Perhaps like this._

Harry didn't waver then. He took the plunge, leaned in, past the plane of moonlight coming through the window, tilted his head awkwardly to account for his large glasses and Severus' beaky nose, then sealed his lips over Severus' thin dry ones. Severus' lips parted under his as Harry slid his hands over Severus' ears, into his hair, and for a long moment they shared a breath. Harry's vision was blurry, the lenses over his eyes fogging up. He clutched at Severus like a lifeline, his hand in Severus' hair, another over his shoulders. He didn't dare move them for the fear that Severus would pull away and this would all end all too soon.

It was the solid weight of Severus' hand on his thigh that did it, prompting Harry to press into that welcome touch, to part his legs and turn toward Severus, pulling him back and down, over Harry, on the bed. "Yes," Harry exhaled his approval, his need. "Touch me."

Severus complied, his buttoned-up robes spilling over Harry's sides, his parted hair dragging soft and feathery over Harry's bare shoulder. His fingers spread wide and strong, splayed over Harry's ribs, over his forearm.

"Touch you how? Here, Harry? Or here?"

"Yeah." Harry thrust against the firm weight pinning him down and it was such a welcome sensation, of Severus' body against his, of Severus' touch against his bare skin, of his name on Severus' lips. Severus shifted over him, deliberately raising his knee up between Harry's legs and the action, the steady pressure, sent a thrill of lust through Harry's groin.

Deft hand plucked Harry's glasses from his face and the world swam, all fiery brilliance and pitch black shadow. And then Severus leaned forward and sealed his mouth over Harry's neck and it was all breathless bliss, a heated rush of movement, as Harry latched onto this bony, still-clothed frame, and traced his hand over the endless row of buttons.

How long had it been since Harry shared intimacy of touch with another? Sure, he turned into Hermione's embrace with a one-armed hug, clapped Ron on the shoulder and had the gesture returned, hugged Ginny goodbye which felt like farewell, but even that left him feeling like a life-sized doll, stuffed with cotton and straw. Ragged and hollow inside. But this was the opposite of that feeling; Harry's body felt awake at last, kindled to life by the thoughtful, caring touch of someone special.

Every inch of his skin felt sensitised with desire. He gasped, overwhelmed by that tingling need for touch, for human contact. For Severus' hands on him.

He thrust upwards, against that wonderful solid weight, and ran his hands up Severus' forearms, gasping. Severus answered, exhaling heavily, with a thrust of his own.

This was new and strange and wonderful. Harry was smitten with the intensity of how good it felt, how right, to be held by another. To be guided into blissful reverie of their bodies fitting together. Was it strange how warm and familiar it was, how much he needed more of it, of everything? Severus' touch, taste and proximity, the sounds he made, the sensation of his mouth on Harry's skin. The overwhelming tenderness of him not quite kissing Harry, pausing for a breathless second to take in the sight.

"Come on," Harry breathed. "More."

"Yesss," Severus hissed and then his hands were everywhere. Harry was rendered wordless, drowning with need, and anchored by it all at once. He was hard; his cock hot and heavy and desperate for touch.

_Fuck. Yes!_

He thrust against those narrow, bony hips in frustration, feeling the answering hardness and driven wild by knowledge that Severus was as hard as he was, as desperate as Harry was. He loved this. He hadn't known he would need this so. And he needed every bit of the difficult man in his arms. Severus Snape. A right bastard. A stern teacher, but no longer one now. An incredible man to kiss.

How wild was that? Harry thought of himself, younger, casting shame aside for the first time to imagine a body that was male in his hold, and somehow it always came back to this. The Half-Blood Prince's sharp wit and sharper tongue. His unexpected, teasing touch. The hot mouth on his neck and a cock as hard as his straining against his groin, as Harry lost all sense and reason in the throes of a fantasy that refused to be tamed. Refused to be replaced by anyone else.

Later, it gained a black cloak and endless buttons, clever fingers and long black hair dragging down his chest, a piercing black gaze refusing to let Harry go. Piercing him whole and taking him in, thoughts and need and utter desperation.

_Mine._

"Refibulato," Severus breathed, and the buttoned layers twisted, parting under Harry's touch.

 _Oh._ That made things much easier. Magic was so, so brilliant.

Yes, this was what Harry had wanted all along. To belong at last. To be held by someone and to know it was honest and real. He had needed to know that he was wanted. As unmistakable of a desire as that frantic exhale, when Harry's hand slid past Severus' belly, into his unbuttoned trousers. As impossible to fake as arousal, weighing hard and hot in Harry's grasp. As welcome as that instinctive thrust as Harry's fingers curled around Severus' cock.

Relishing the skin-on-skin contact, Harry kept his hand between their bodies and felt bare flesh. The warmth, the vulnerability. He grinned, against the angular shoulder, and for the first time in his life, wrapped his fingers around another man's cock and felt it twitch in response. Severus gasped, thrusting against him and it was a pleasure then, pure bliss, to see those parted lips stretched, to see that neutral mask leave Severus' expression at last. _I've got you. Yes!_

And so Harry kept on, with a sure grasp, surer than anything he'd done in his life, that this was what he wanted, what he needed and must do. Drive Severus wild, drive that grimace from his expression, make him ask for it, make come undone at Harry's touch alone. And he was well on the way of doing so, as he twisted his wrist just so, as he pressed his own straining cock against Severus' and took them both in his hold, as their fingers met and Severus' strong grip took over and it was wonderful, maddening wonderful chaos, and Harry didn't know what to think then, what to want but this. The shared breath between them, the sandpaper feel of Severus' jaw against Harry's neck, the tight hold of his fingers over their cocks and the sure, sped up movements that one by one drove Harry wild with want.

So hot, so right, so fucking perfect. Harry's entire awareness of self had compressed to two points of want, Severus' hold on him and Severus' mouth and teeth in the crook of his shoulder. Poised to bite, not biting, the teasing sod. And this was just like Severus, wasn't it, to keep Harry on edge, keep him fighting back, thrusting back, render him speechless and catching his breath, never surrendering, never giving up but still... _ohfuck, please._

Harry dug his fingers into Severus' wrist. The movement of Severus' hand was a blur now, a wondrous, wanted bliss. Harry cried out, needing more, needing all of it. And Severus replied with an answering gasp, the tightening of his grip over them. Nothing mattered but this. Harry clutched at Severus and gasped for air, hid his face in Severus' still-clothed shoulder, opened his mouth and tasted salty skin, drank in the heat of it, the scent of arousal. His throat spasmed with desperation, with absolute need.

 _I can't. I'm going to come before he does. Ohgod. Breathe. Gotta breathe. Ohh._ The maddening pressure spread outwards from his cock, and Harry was gone. Mouth open in a silent scream, thrusting wildly, needing Severus, needing him so much that very moment. And _fuck, yes._ Overwhelmed into coming. Feeling the hot warmth on his skin and in the heat of the moment, not knowing if it was his own or not.

He felt nothing but bliss, his limbs weighted down by post-orgasmic relaxation. He breathed in and out. His cock was too sensitive for Severus' hold.

"Oh." Harry voiced. He tried again trying to convey just how mindblowing this was. "Wow."

Severus hummed, sated and warm against Harry's jaw. "All right?"

"Uh-huh."

Harry felt a smile rather than saw it: a stretch of lips against the corner of his mouth. Severus' arms tightened around him and Harry felt the faint soap bubble tingle of a wordless cleaning spell drying his skin. He slid his hands under Severus' unbuttoned shirt and sighed into the bare skin of his shoulder.

Bliss filled every part of him, and in that particular moment, Harry knew, there was not a space in his mind that was left empty of it. It's as if all the darkness and desperation of years before has been washed clean by the joy of this moment. This, precisely this, is what made life worth it, every bloody second. Every agonising night. Every tear and every heartbreak.

Happiness felt good. They both deserved a bit of pure joy in their lives, didn't they?

All was well.

In the corner, unnoticed by either man, a rusted-over star remained under its protective bubble. It was perfectly still, perhaps lifeless; perhaps merely waiting.

*

Harry awoke from the sunlight beaming through the lacy window curtains, and the weight of another in his arms. It was such a welcome feeling. Harry exhaled cautiously and drew his arms closer around Severus' shoulders. Severus apparently was a heavy sleeper, his face turned into the bend of Harry's shoulder and neck, his hair strands strewn along the edge of their pillow. His limbs, angular and long and bent oddly, weighted Harry down like a thick blanket. His breathing was shallow and sharp, and too uneven for someone in deep sleep.

A pang of worry rushed through Harry's chest as he lifted himself over.

  
"Hey... Snape?"

The blanket covering them both shifted, and it was then, with the horror sinking into his every bone and muscle in a deep body shiver, that Harry saw the blackened skin over Severus' pale chest.

The sickening spread of veiny branches of magic extending from the middle of his ribcage.

The sheer horror of another taking Harry's place twisted his stomach, chilled him to the core. Once again, he saw Cedric's lifeless eyes, felt the finality of the Killing Curse. _"Kill the spare."_

Harry reached for the darkness. This was not supposed to happen. There was no star in the centre of the cursed skin, no medal. His gaze drifted to the magical bubble under which the Order of Merlin sat untouched in the corner table. The inside of the bubble glowed an angry shade of purple.

_Oh, shit. The curse is still active. It's attacking him, just like it attacked me._

_What will happen to him? I don't even have my wand. I did this to Severus. I can't..._

Harry shook Severus, but he wasn't responding, wasn't moving, just like in the Shrieking Shack when his body had gone limp and his stare dull and lifeless, and then Harry knew... He just knew... When Harry had stopped fighting and let it happen. Let someone die in his arms.

_No, not today!_

"SEVERUS!" Harry roared, shaking the man. A sharp intake of breath, a full body shudder, and a bleary stare had never looked so good. "Come, we have to go."

Severus' head shook and his stare drifted toward his cloak tossed aside, his wand in a side pocket. One sallow hand drifted over Harry's hold, reaching.

"Are you joking? You aren't in any shape to cast spells, we have to get you help!"

"No."

 _Stubborn sod!_ Harry nudged Severus out of bed, reaching for his robes and pulling them around Severus' shoulders. But all that effort only seemed to bring Severus closer to closing his fingers around the wand handle. It shone, black and polished against his palm.

"Expecto Patronum," Severus said and pale smoke oozed out of the tip, and Harry was once more reminded of the sight of Snape's lifeless body in the Shrieking Shack oozing bright essence, memories, more than memories. Bleeding Severus' life force, out on the dusty floor.

But that was then, and this was now, and the pale smoke gathered, manifesting the graceful shape of a young doe, leggy and tall, with large twitching ears and soulful eyes. She spun around Harry in a circle, as if trying to tell him something. As if leading him to his goal.

Severus looked surprised to see it. As surprised as Harry was to see that he was able to cast it in such a state.

"What is it?" Harry asked Severus through the sheer inhuman effort it took to hold him up. "What do you need me to do?"

"The medal," Severus hissed through his teeth with a pointed stare toward the corner table. "Now!"

Harry scrambled to reach it, picking the artefact under a protective bubble. With horror, he felt it contract, as if trying to burrow again into the flesh of his palm.

"Careful!" Severus cried out.

"Yeah. OK, now what!" Harry held it out at arm's length, and the doe followed him.

 _Patronus, a pure concentration of happiness and hope,_ Harry thought back on his Auror Academy homework, a rush of far-away scribbled words, now a physical wave of said hope and happiness washing over him. _Primary protection against Dementors and Lethifolds. One of the most powerful defensive charms known to mankind. Maybe, just maybe strong enough to purify the effects of an obscure, dangerous hex._

"Wait," Severus exhaled, with difficulty, gathering his breath for further comment. "Let her."

She circled around the offering as if it was a salt block and gave it a cautious sniff. Then, she reached out, extending her long narrow muzzle and licked the contents of Harry's hand.

The bubble with an ominous glow within fizzled, and now the corroded trinket lay on Harry's open palm. For a brief second, before the glow came back, darker and more ominous, trails of smoke spread like tentacles.

 _Oh. I see now. It's working._ Harry kept his arm extended as he backed toward the bed, reaching for Severus. "Give me your wand. Quick!" he exclaimed.

To his surprise, a thin handle was thrust into his hand as Severus surrendered his hold on it. Focusing on the spell, Harry summoned his joy at seeing Severus' survival, his gentle happiness at the feel of Severus' lips against his forehead, the quiet ease of sharing a bed and more last night. "Expecto Patronum!" he cried out. The stag burst forth, joining the doe, in cautious examination of the star in Harry's palm. Of the spirit doe beside him.

Their noses collided over the offered trinket as if they were both trying to reach for the offering first. Their stares met. Harry's stag was the first to give the doe a cautious nudge and then an odd thing happened as he stepped forward, his ghostly white form passing through the corroded medal, and stepped up to the doe, dancing around her, prompting her to dance, too. The room filled with the smoky silver trails as they spun together, all around the central point of the medal in Harry's grasp, as they passed through it in a rush, and each time that happened, the medal shone just a little brighter, its edges dulling, its weight lightening. The glow around it fading altogether, overcome by the light of the Patronuses, his and Severus'.

Harry beamed, glancing back at Severus, and what he saw made his heart leap. In the glow of twin manifestations of their shared joy, Severus' chest looked pale again, unharmed.

He approached Severus with a light heart, and then extended both hands, returning both, Severus' wand, and Severus' medal.

Because no one would ever convince Harry that the honour wasn't Severus Snape's to keep.

Severus' cautious fingers plucked his wand from Harry's grip, and then he reached out for the Order of Merlin, not a corroded cog, but a multi-point star of shining white-gold once more.

Around the room, the Patronuses still soared and twirled, unpredictable as the sea waves outside.

Harry turned, unable to take his eyes off the sight of half-dressed Severus, with untidy hair and burning eyes. Someone still alive, despite it all. Someone impossible.

He couldn't help it: he released a joyous laugh.

After a few seconds of shared eye contact, Severus allowed his eyes to rake over Harry. Down, down, down. As he did so, Severus' eyebrow arched. "Are you planning to get dressed today? Not that I mind the view, but unless you plan on giving my dear old mother an eyeful..."

Harry snorted and bent down to collect his pants off the floor where they had landed yesterday. Both the doe and the stag had settled on two sides of Severus with the stag nudging at his hair, as if it was a stray blade of grass, his branching horns - a corona of light over Severus' head. It was a good look for him, Harry decided.

There was one thing that bothered Harry, despite the joyful moment. Something he couldn't leave alone.

"Did you know it would do that?" he asked Severus, turning and facing the man.

"What?"

"My medal. The curse. Did you know it would transfer to you?"

He thought of offering the medal to Severus, the moment Severus' fingers curled around the blackened star. That day, Harry had thought the curse held within it was gone, but it had merely been lying dormant within. Had Severus sensed it, he wondered. Had he known what he signed up for when he took on the burden of Harry's curse? Had he consciously make that decision?

If so, it wasn't right. Harry should have guessed sooner.

Severus' expression was unreadable.

"You can't do that! You shouldn't have done that to begin with!"

That got a reaction out of Snape. He gathered himself, like a poised snake, making himself taller and more imposing, as he stood up, his glare never leaving Harry. "Don't tell me what I can or cannot do."

Harry pushed his fringe back in frustration, running his fingers through his tangled hair. "I don't want you to fight my battles for me. That curse wasn't yours to take on! I..."

"Enough of that." The quiet, resolute tone stopped Harry's rant before it had a chance to unravel further. "I didn't know. I suspected and made my decision accordingly."

 _Infuriating, impossible man!_ Harry took a deep breath to continue on berating Severus, but he kept on talking. "A better use of our time and efforts would be to figure out who cast such an elaborate curse, not fighting over which one of us was under its influence, don't you think?"

Harry bit his lip. Unfortunately, Severus' words, frustrating as they were, made sense.

"Whoever cast it had to be a Slytherin," he summarised. "It's too bloody devious to have come from anyone else."

Severus looked just a little too smug at that declaration. "In that case, it may take one to catch one." The next word out of his mouth was a complicated tracking spell, as Severus' wand pointed right in the centre of the gold star. Harry watched with curiosity, as a range of emotions played across Severus' face. Curiosity. Concern.

"That's odd..."

"What? What is it?" Harry questioned.

"This has a tracking spell on it already. Someone has already attempted to find the thief."

"Who?" Harry breathed.

"There are only three people who can step through the front door without being decapitated on the spot," Severus concluded. "I trust a simple process of elimination is not beyond you."

"You don't think it's your mum, do you?" Harry thought of the frail old lady with a loud voice going after someone who had to be a seasoned Death Eater.

Severus' teeth bared in a smirk, and there was something proud in his tone. "I pity anyone who stands in her way. Nonetheless, we will discuss this whenever she returns."

*

Before Eileen's arrival, Harry whispered a quick message to the stag and waved it off to deliver the correspondence. Soon enough, the stag returned with a frantic Jack Russell terrier led by a manic, mostly noncorporeal tadpole two leaps ahead of it.

Ron's and Neville's matching voices emerged.

"We've got 'em, Harry! Good job."

"Good job being bait, you mean. Bloody Robards, I can't believe he sent you out without so much as a proper briefing. Where are you now anyway, mate?"

"Harry, it was Goyle's uncle and his cousin. They confessed to everything. Even cursing you."

"They weren't hard to take down, let me tell you. Goyle's uncle didn't even struggle. It's like someone has hexed him to confess!"

"Was it you, Harry?"

"Just answer us, tell us you're alright."

Harry sighed. "Expecto Patronum," he said once again and then, just "Never better! I'm... I've met someone... Who helped me. We should talk."

As his stag galloped out the door, it ran right through a frazzled old witch, Eileen, with her deathly stare.

"Um, they're saying they got the bad guys, Mrs Prince," Harry said. "And that someone hexed them to confess. Weird, huh?" He turned to Severus.

Severus' eyebrow arched as he pointedly didn't look at his mum. "Suspicious, don't you think, Ma?"

"Psh!" Eileen gathered up her skirts with a rustle. "Never-you-mind all that nonsense. What have you done to my family home, young man?" she questioned Harry, all teeth and hair and one gnarly finger pointing right at Harry. "It's bad enough my son has removed every hex, every charm it held. And now! Why, it REEKS of light magic. And all these wholesome charms in the bedroom, only an Auror..." she stopped dead in her tracks, as if gathering breath for another go. "What have you done to my poor son? Look! He's clearly not himself, he's even... glowing."

"I am fine," Severus rushed to stand up from the bed, buttoning up his robes and gathering them around him. His dark strips of hair had a faint Patronus glow to them. He slipped the medal in his hands into his pocket.

Harry hurried to him and stayed standing only a step away, offering silent support. Or perhaps providing a cover.

"Would you like breakfast, Mrs Prince?" he offered with his most gallant smile. "Scrambled eggs? Bacon?" He thought of his aunt Petunia's kitchen and how different this tiny kitchenette felt. How welcoming despite its owner's sinister demeanour.

Eileen tucked her wild hair into a demure bun, staring gravely all along, and then flashed him a sneer which looked a little like the smile of someone about to devour him whole. "Acceptable. I brought fresh coffee grinds you may use. Severus ought to lend you his wand, and a hand, I suppose, to speed things up seeing as he's in such sharing mood this morning, aren't you, dear?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to teach me manners."

"Good, I've given up on that ages ago. Oh, if your great-aunt Agnes could see you now. Past forty, unattached and dallying with a young, impressionable lad like that. Why, she'd snap her precious wand in two and bequeath this place to the village vicar on the spot. So, good on you. Now, do go on, help Harry in the kitchen."

Harry grinned at the dramatic entry one Severus Snape made in the kitchen and whispered to him while Eileen wasn't looking: "Oi, why the vicar? Was your great-aunt a church-going sort?"

Eileen's cackling interrupted whatever Severus was about to say. "The old harpy swore Grandpa George, her da, was faithful to Gran Liv 'til the end, but we all couldn't help but question his motives, what with the nose on the bloke. Why, the Muggle lad strolled about in those robes of his looking just like old Agnes, only with better hair."

The three of them gathered around the small table, with Severus pulling up an additional chair from the bedroom, as Harry's cooking filled the small room with mouthwatering smells. Sunlight streamed through the small window with a cracked pane of glass. Floorboards squeaked under Harry's feet. Warmth spread from the stove, from the plates, and from the proximity of two other people in such small quarters. Easy chatter filled the air under the low ceiling. Eileen had piled up an extra helping of the bacon on her plate and examined the stubby brown fork handle with a frown. She produced a wand from the folds of her skirt and gave it a wave. Harry tried to hide his frustration of not having a wand in his hand when Eileen made casual spellwork look so easy.

Suddenly, the three mismatched plates morphed into a fancy dinner set and Harry discovered himself holding a silvery ornate fork which looked far too expensive for the tiny kitchen. There were small shiny snakes curling along the border of the plates and the silverware looked polished and new.

A smile lingered on Eileen's hawk-nosed face. "Better!" she declared, looking up at the low ceiling and curling her lip. "Severus, you must sort out the Extension Charms tomorrow. You may be used to living in the dungeon, but I refuse to welcome a guest in such a terrible hovel. Why, it's smaller than the Prince family crypt and creaks worse than Gran Liv's old bones."

Harry choked on his mouthful and bravely attempted to wash it down with coffee. "If you say so, Mrs Prince. I like it just the way it is."

Under the table, Severus' hand brushed warm and light, just across Harry's thigh, and squeezed. It sent the heat rushing upwards from the point of contact and warmth settled deep within Harry. The safe and comfortable sensation that brought a smile to Harry's face.

*

_One day earlier._

Abigail had enjoyed the sea air as she took the time to stroll down the chilly beach, after her visit with Evelyn Gale this afternoon. _Heavens, the woman could talk your ear off!_ She needed some peace and quiet after that. Even though she lived on the coast, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had walked down the beach this year.

The view was quite lovely despite the chill. She wrapped her wool coat around herself and hid her nose in her fluffy pink scarf. She took a few determined steps down, with the jagged, sandy cliffs rising on her right side and with the sea roaring on her left.

If she recalled correctly, this stretch of the cliffs had caves in them. She had seen the photographs pinned to the wall back at the Black Horse Inn and they seemed large enough for a human to fit through.

She heard alarmed voices behind a craggy cliffside and rushed forward, witnessing the oddest scene in the shadow of the cliff. An old, hook-nosed woman, her grey long hair flowing freely on the breeze, threatened a tall, obese man in a frilly brown dress with a stick pressed against his jugular.

"Leave while you still can, Eileen!" the large man hissed, looking as imposing as a hulking walrus.

"Oh, you don't know me. You trespass in _my_ town, invade _my_ home, stalk _my_ son. This is personal." The man hissed something and reached not for the woman, Eileen, but for a twig at his feet, but sparks emerged all around his collar and wrists, pulling him upwards at an odd angle, preventing him from reaching down.

Abigail blinked and clutched her purse to her chest. An angry red line circled the man's neck and chest, binding him, pushing him upwards until he stood on the tiptoes and cried out.

 _What was that thing? Electricity? Lasers?_ It was coming from the wooden stick in the woman's hand and looked about as harmless as a magician's trick, but apparently, it intimidated the man enough to turn his face an angry shade of red.

"So I'm telling you all, Goyle. Leave me and mine alone. Run. While you still have legs, boy."

They said something else, Abigail couldn't hear very well behind the hissing of the waves on the beach, but it looked as if the tension only escalated. The man was nearly hanging in the air, struggling against invisible bonds. And the old woman held up that stick, pointing the tip of it right into his left nostril. Inserting it in at a painful-looking angle.

"Blood-traitor," the man hissed. "You're as good as dead. No one would mourn you."

"You think that scares me? Ha! Let me tell you, after years of threats in my own house, from my own man, I shall not be at anyone's mercy ever again."

"You? What can you do?"

"Oh, all the ways I could make you see sense... let's start with the fun bits."

She muttered something that sounded like a complete nonsense, but the man shook and let out a blood-curdling scream, shaking and falling backwards against the sandy cliffside.

"Enough! All right."

The woman advanced on him. "Now, listen here. Leave. My. Boy. Alone."

Abigail gasped as a shell cracked beneath her boot and the old woman's head turned and then the stick pointed right at Abigail. Her stare was dark and shrewd. Shiny and disinterested, like the crows in Abigail's garden that watched her through the windows. Abigail always did find those birds creepy.

"Obliviate!"

*

Harry and Severus stood outside, right by the shaft of an ancient stone cross marking the very tip of the cliff. From this angle, it looked more like a giant pestle thrust into the rocks in order to grind them into sand. At the base was a worn Latin inscription: _primus inter pares_.

 _First among equals_ , Harry squinted at the inscription and put his Auror Academy's only Latin course to use. As he touched the tip of the stone, he saw glowing letters swirl around the base, like radiant silver roots stretching among the rocks, spreading as fast as lightning. They were formed from so many names, one after the other branching out in a Wizarding family tree. Griselda. George. Olivia. Severus. Agnes. William. Peter. Annette. Louisa. Eileen, and then underneath, as a concluding offshoot, in a different, spiky script: Severus Tobias. That had to be Severus. His Severus.

The seagulls called out overhead, in the overcast sky. A cool, salty breeze blew from the sea. The air was thick with fog. Beneath the cliff, angry waves washed ashore. It was, Harry had to admit, beautiful, in a harsh, lonesome sort of way.

One might say, it was an unforgettable experience. Like Severus himself was.

"Um," Harry said, sticking his hands in his pocket. "I should go back tomorrow. Get a new wand. Report in, tell Robards - that's my supervisor - I am safe and sound, even though Ron and Neville did all the work. I don't see why I have to report anything."

"Gawain is a sly old sod," Severus mused. "Outlasted an administration change: that takes discretion and knowing where all the corpses are buried."

Harry blinked. "You know Robards?" Somehow it felt odd to connect two unconnected parts of his life together that way. Work and... Whatever this was that was growing between Severus and him.

Severus tilted his head. "We work together, on occasion."

Harry turned to him. "Work? As in now? So. Er, what is it you do? I just assumed..." _Assumed that he never left his mum's place?_

"Research," Severus said airily, and the air around them shivered with a wordless Muffliato, adding to the hiss-whisper of the waves below. That answer explained nothing at all, but the spell explained oh, so much. "Curse-invention, observation, reports; one can't be too selective in my current..." he put a hand over his marked arm. "... position."

"Wait." Harry gasped putting his hand over his mouth, as he stared at what appeared to be Severus' family tree at his feet. " _You_ are Madam Griselda Grimsbane! The informant! You are still spying for us, aren't you? For the Ministry! I can't believe it! We're working for the same team."

"You could say that." Severus smirked. "Who do you think has been filling in over those abhorrent chicken scratches you send back every other week? You wrecked your first mission, by the way. Expect a talk regarding _that_ from Gawain tomorrow. You must do better."

"Hey!" Harry protested. All of a sudden, the frustration and the boredom of being an Auror faded from Harry's mind, only the excitement and the resolve to improve remained. "I happen to think I did well. Found you, didn't I?"

One skinny long arm rested over Harry's shoulders as he took in the view, and Severus himself in proximity, and all that felt rather good. Incredibly so.

"I suppose someone needs to keep saving you from yourself," Severus murmured. "For your information, keeping up with you is a full-time job."

"Uh-huh. And you love it." Harry chanced a declaration. _I love it too,_ came a simple thought that refused to release him from its hold. _I do. I love this, being with him._

With Severus' arms around him, Harry stared into the storm clouds in the sky, at the lightning-bright tree roots spreading before him, and felt absolute peace. That feeling of calm was threatening to become a habit.

 _The only thing that can be better than this, is flying,_ Harry thought. _That's right, I promised him we'll go flying one day. Soon._

His lips parted in a grin as he looked up at Severus.

_Together._

*

"Hello," the ominous stranger croaked, greeting Abigail by the old cross. Her name was Eileen and Abigail couldn't shake the feeling she had met the old woman before.

"Do you happen to know anyone in town with a property to let?" Eileen folded her enormous brolly and shook the raindrops off it before entering the pub where Abigail dropped off her garden vegetables.

"Oh? Who's asking?"

"Well, as the story goes, my son, who is in the area, met this darling lost youth awhile back, absolutely helpless..."

"The poor dear needs a place to stay," Abigail guessed. "Many members of our parish would be happy to help her."

"Him," Eileen smiled wolfishly. "And the place is for me. The boy needs all the help he can get, what with my sulking son curdling milk with his glare on the happiest of days. And after my husband passed away a few years back, well... Though that was certainly for the best. I've been, er, travelling back and forth, but there are only so many trips these old bones can handle, and I do want to keep a closer eye on them, the lovebirds."

 _Good Heavens. That I can believe. She is certainly_ not _from around here,_ decided Abigail, reaching for her favourite string of pearls to clutch, but realising she wasn't wearing any. _I would have heard a story like hers through the village gossip years ago._ She blinked and tried to assume a caring listener's expression. _Hornsea maybe, or even all the way from Hull._

"I could also use some company in town in my old age," Eileen continued. "So, a parish, you say. How... curious."

Abigail was always excited to talk about her husband's parish, so she happily chatted on the long walk back to the Church Lane.

A few weeks later, the oddest things happened at their old church. Eileen sat there in Abigail's kitchen and nodded and patted her hand as the panicked Abigail recounted the story of a haunted wellspring. Odd noises in the garden. Sudden chill in the air. All the tapping and the groaning in the pipes.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Eileen assured, "whatever it was is as harmless as a butterfly, or you'd know otherwise by now. Oh, but Abby, dear, what have you heard about this headless horseman? Wouldn't that be something special to see for yourself?"

The twelve-year-old Abby, a vicar's daughter long before she became a vicar's wife, would have agreed with her wholeheartedly. Eileen had a knack for bringing out all the childish habits. Even the custard tart she had brought with her for tea was loaded with sugar, not that Abigail minded.

"We should take a walk down by the old crossroads when the weather is better. Perhaps we will get lucky. The horses like the twilight hour, I hear."

Abigail blinked and refused to let a batty, helpless soul like old Eileen go strolling through the wilderness alone after dark _. Why not,_ she thought, _what's the worst that can happen? Still..._ "Aren't you afraid? Always wandering around looking for trouble. What if it finds you?"

Eileen answered in a bark of laughter as she tucked a single wooden knitting needle into her purse. "What trouble? It's just a walk down the road. Does wonders for your complexion, I say." She turned her sallow nose up at the empty teacup and flipped her grey mane back, with the posture of a queen in her throne room.

From the pipes under the sink, something echoed Eileen's abrupt crow call laughter. Perhaps it was even a hobgoblin, as Eileen once proclaimed after putting her ear to the pipes and tapping the wall with the tip of her favourite knitting needle, which she carried around all the time, oddly without any yarn whatsoever.

 _Surely not,_ Abigail chided herself, _Why, nothing like that ever happens here in Atwick._

"So you haven't listened to Stubby Boardman?" Eileen sat up primly in her chair and sipped her tea. "Of course not. Pity. I know for a fact their last live performance was _such_ a treat!"

The most peculiar of noises carried on: an out-of-tune melody the likes of which Abigail had never heard before.

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_tea.jpg)

* * *

_Too much Butterbeer ("Butterbeer!")_  
_Christmas_  
_Too much Butterbeer ("Butterbeer!")_  
_Christmas_  
_And all the girls say, "Stubby_  
_How come you don't come 'round no more?"_  
_-_ [Stubby Boardman](https://genius.com/Stubby-boardman-too-much-butterbeer-lyrics)

**Epilogue**

Right after spending Christmas with the Weasleys, Harry Apparated near Atwick and took a road up to the cliffs, past the iced-over shore and the time-roughened pillbox remains. He gripped his broom and carried on walking through the spell-induced thought-noise of ' _the weather is nice for a stroll, far away from here_ ' and ' _I have so much to do today, best turn around and go back_ ' and ' _look at that rock way over there, that's a very interesting one_ ' because they were almost welcome by now, a series of mental stepping stones on the road to the main goal.

Harry knew what stood invisible on top of the cliff he was climbing and that made the wards a slight annoyance instead of impenetrable defence. As he reached his target after the long climb, he reached out through the mirage of an empty clifftop, knowing he should be coming up to the front steps and the doorway. Like a magic box, the house appeared before him at the end of the sandy path, solid as the ground on which Harry stood.

The door creaked open, releasing a steamy gust of warmth and a yellow plane of light, disrupted by two beaky shadows. Harry held in a breath and stepped inside, into a noisy conversation, with a friendly greeting on his lips.

Severus and Eileen welcomed him in. And what a welcome it was! Like an unfolded cardboard box bearing a precious gift, the small cottage by the sea transformed with Severus' spells into a place much larger on the inside. With bright curtains and matching furniture. With a proper kitchen and a smell of sugary desserts.

Eileen was at the stove. She dipped a spoon into the bowl and carefully licked the treacle off the tip, releasing a worried 'tsk', and rushing to add more powdered sugar. There was room in the kitchen now for her large, ruffled skirt.

"Harry. Just in time," Severus greeted him. With one wave of Severus' hand, a chair slid out from the kitchen table, one beside Severus, in silent continuation of that greeting. Harry set his broom in the corner and sat, warming his hands over a hot cuppa.

*

The day past Boxing Day was chilly but the sun broke through the clouds. Severus and Harry stood on the cliff by the stone structure, glowing faintly with the roots of Severus' family names.

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_house.jpg)

"So," Harry said, letting his eagerness slip into his tone. "I've got my broom here... "

"And...?"

"Well, you know!" _Bloody hell, couldn't Severus tell what brooms were for? This had to be teasing, the torturing sod was enjoying every moment too, judging by that stare._ "Oh, stop that!"

"Stop what?" Severus deadpanned, thin-lipped. "Is there a purpose to all this aimless hinting?"

 _Aha!_ "Well," Harry beamed. "Have you got anything else to do today? How about flying?"

Severus' lips parted in something akin to a smile. "It'll be freezing higher up above the water. Tie your scarf properly, and don't neglect the Warming charms over your backside."

Harry's spirits soared with the wind and he felt warm all over, despite the weather. "Hey, it's not my first time up, you know. Accio broom!"

The sea breeze parted Severus' hair, ruffled Harry's fringe. The sharpness of Severus' features blended with the surroundings of all these craggy cliffs and the spitting waves crashing ashore.

"Very well. Since you are so eager... Race you to Hornsea?"

 _Now we're talking._ Harry grabbed his broom in mid-air and leapt onto it with a practised move. "Only to Hornsea? Oh, it's on!"

He sensed the bubble of a Concealment spell wash over them. Severus' magic felt warm and safe, as if it were Severus' fingers that brushed Harry's hair back and not his spellwork. Harry turned back to him just in time to see Severus, who merely lowered his hands by his sides and then rose up in the air as light as a soap bubble, except far more menacing than any bubble, with his billowing, black cloak, raven-wing hair and a sharply arched brow. As shadowy and as dangerous as a Dementor, hovering high up against the sky.

"Wow," Harry blinked at the sight before him, tilting his broom into the wind as it dipped and rose with the chilling gusts and thought of the summer memory of Mum landing in the grass with the same sort of lightness that now took Severus up higher and higher. "I need to learn how to do this!"

The wind blew a couple of black strands over Severus' face. His lip curled, in the shadow of his large nose. "Most don't bother. It takes years of mental practice. Or natural talent, like your mother's."

"Yeah, I know brooms are just as good but still. What else can you do?"

" _Just_ as good? See for yourself." Without giving much of an answer to Harry's question, Severus bolted, like a dark shadow of a giant raptor, zooming down over the water line.

"Hey!" Harry called out. "No cheating!" As he yelled that, he already pressed himself over his broom handle and leaned forward, making himself smaller and thus faster. _Bloody Slytherins!_ "Oi, wait up!"

The bony figure in front of him only sped up, deceptive in its apparent stillness as Severus hovered and flew, really flew, faster than Harry's broom carried him.

_Damn it, I knew he'd take this race seriously! Well then, can't very well let him win._

Harry braced against the wind and tasted the sea breeze, going faster and soaring high over the stormy waves, keeping his eye on the prize of a dark shape right ahead of him, close enough to reach out for it. Almost close enough to touch.

"How are you holding up with the weather? Want a proper ride back home?" Harry swirled higher, calling down from his broom.

Severus darted toward the shore, undistracted by the taunt. "Depends, are you that desperate to swim back to the house?"

 _Got you,_ Harry thought, grinning against the chill up in the sky. And then, Severus turned back, his stare dark, his brow arching in a clear challenge, and suddenly, as if on cue, they both sped up for the final stretch of the race.

With all the deep affection Harry felt for Severus, he wasn't about to let the cheating sod win so easily.

Far behind them, an empty cliff cut into the beach, Eileen's family home rendering itself invisible to the onlookers. Ahead of them, Hornsea stretched, with its brightly coloured roofs and its Muggle buildings and its network of roads, like a spider web on one of Eileen's embroidered blankets. And beyond that all, was the water, all stormy and unsettled, a deep greying green. A suitable backdrop for the spectacle of Severus' unaided flight.

"Not fair, you know these parts better than I do," Harry cried, blindsided by a gust of wind.

"We'll just have to do this again, until you learn to race properly."

"Oh yeah? Learn this!"

"Don't fall off, I don't plan on rescuing you for the rest of the year."

"Ha! What's left of it?"

"Precisely."

"Deal!"

Harry leaned into the wind and rushed toward the shore, determined to keep up. His laughter followed Severus', echoed by the hissing waves below.

Harry loved it all, he realised with unexpected intensity. The chill of it. The sky, the sea, and most of all, Severus. And the promise of more days like this to come. The New Year couldn't come soon enough, but this one didn't have to go anywhere: it was perfect already. Harry sped up, on a single breath, and looked at the fast-approaching seaside town.

 _There!_ The sour old sod had it coming! Harry felt victorious already, as if a golden Snitch was right within his grasp, and soared on that feeling alone.

"Well, you've won, what else do you want?" Snape grumbled on the way back, his kiss-brightened lips curling into a smirk.

"A medal," Harry laughed against the sea breeze, still feeling the heat of that sudden kiss: as he caught up to Severus and passed him in the final, sudden lunge, Harry leapt forward off his broom and tackled the man. They had collided in mid-air and Severus had caught him with a startled 'oof' as they took a small dive before Severus' magic slowed their fall.

Harry straddled his broomstick once more, and his arms wrapped around Severus. Severus' hands slid up Harry's back, cold but welcome, sending chills up Harry's spine. Their mouths met, pressed together, and there was no telling then who was holding up whom, in a brilliant chaos of mutual passion.

_Yeah. Definitely a medal!_

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/halfwaytohornsea_sea.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [LiveJournal](https://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3845553.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1778661.html), or [Dreamwidth](https://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/1095687.html).


End file.
